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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



The Corsair 
Lara 



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" World Classics ' ' 



The Corsair 




LOR D B Y R N J G ■■ 

Illustrations by Gambard and Mittis 
With Introduction by M. F. Sweetser 




BOSTON 

JOSEPH KNIGHT COMPANY 

M DCCC XCIII 




WASW^ ( 






Copyright, 18Q3, by 
JOSEPH KNIGHT COMPANY 

IZ-WSf 



John Wilson and Son, Cambridge 
U. S. A. 



Contents. 



THE CORSAIR. 

Page 
Introduction xi 

Canto the First i 

Canto the Second 28 

Canto the Third . 54 

LARA. 

Canto the First 87 

Canto the Second 116 



INTRODUCTION. 



Upon the altars of unseemly and deformed 
human souls sometimes flashes the divinest 
white light of genius, and dwells and burns 
there for years, as if immeasurably superior to, 
unconscious of, the blemishes about it. Thus 
it was with Byron. Poisoned by evil heredi- 
ties on both sides, ill-trained in youth, an 
associate of atheists, his great soul bore many 
wounds and scars, and yet was the abode of 
transcendent genius. 

The family history begins with Ralph de 
Burun, whose name was recorded in Domesday 
Book, away back in the days of the Norman 
Conquest. Some of his descendants became 
knights, and in their posterity the family rose 
to the rank of baronets. Still later, they did 
valiant service for the king, in the stormy days 
of Charles I., and that grateful sovereign raised 
them to the peerage. Coming down to the eigh- 



INTRODUCTION. 



teenth century, we find the family represented 
by William Lord Byron and his brother, the 
celebrated Admiral Byron, the grand-uncle and 
the grandfather of the poet. The admiral's 
son was Captain John Byron, of the Guards, 
who made a runaway match with Lady Caer- 
marthen, and kindly married her, after she had 
secured a divorce. To them was born a daugh- 
ter, Augusta Mary, who became the Honourable 
Mrs. Leigh. The second wife of the dissolute 
guardsman was Catharine Gordon of Gight, a 
wealthy Scottish lady, in whose veins ran the 
blood of the Stuarts. From this union was 
born the author of " Childe Harold," who first 
saw the light in Holies Street, London, January 
22d, 1788. 

It did not take the captain long to squander 
the fortune of his Highland bride, and then he 
lightly abandoned her, levanting to the Conti- 
nent, where he died, at Valenciennes, in 1791. 
Embittered by her wrongs, and withal by 
nature of a moody and violent spirit, Catharine 
returned to Aberdeen with her infant son 
(whom in angry moments she called "a lame 
brat " ), and at the age of five the unhappy 
child was put to school. Long before he 



INTRODUCTION. 



reached college, he had passed thrice under the 
domination of the master-passion of his life, in 
his love-affairs with Mary Duff, Margaret Par- 
ker, and Miss Chaworth. 

When George had reached the age of ten, his 
grand-uncle, the reigning Lord Byron, died 
without a son, and his title descended to the 
son of Captain Byron. The lad was thence 
known as Baron Byron of Rochdale, with a 
large encumbered property, and the lordship of 
Newstead Abbey, in Nottinghamshire. He be- 
came a ward in Chancery, with the Earl of 
Carlisle as guardian. Mrs. Byron, who made 
his life miserable by alternate petting and 
scolding, each equally spasmodic and without 
reason, kept him at Newstead for a year, 
studying Latin ; and then placed him in Dr. 
Glennie's school, at Dulwich, near London. 
But she so often withdrew the young student, 
to take him to masquerades and other fashion- 
able amusements, that his lessons suffered, and 
Lord Carlisle therefore caused him to be sent to 
the more firmly ruled school at Harrow. Here 
he remained three years, a turbulent and ill- 
conditioned pupil, and without scholastic apti- 
tude, but generous to his mates, and devoted to 



INTRODUCTION. 



miscellaneous reading. Thereafter, he gave 
two years to a rather idle life at Trinity Col- 
lege, Cambridge, devoting himself more to 
hearty practice in fencing, boxing, swimming 
shooting, and kindred diversions than to the 
study of the classics and the humanities. In 
1809 he took his seat in the House of Lords, 
and had a serious purpose of entering politics, 
under which impulse he made three rather 
good speeches before the Peers. But this 
career was soon closed, for he had already un- 
wittingly entered upon a grander mission, 
whose swift and resistless advance swept away 
all other plans and dreams. 

The drift of his mind toward poetry showed 
itself as early as his tenth year, when he grati- 
fied his wrath at a certain old lady by writing a 
rhymed satire. His childish love-affairs also 
naturally stirred the fountains of verse. In his 
eighteenth year he printed a little volume of 
miscellaneous verses, but a kindly old clerical 
mentor objected to the unchasteness which ap- 
peared therein, and the young author caused the 
edition to be destroyed. In 1807 he published 
" Hours of Idleness," a volume of very poor 
verse, which showed but scanty promise for the 



INTRODUCTION. 



future. Brougham or some other critic on the 
" Edinburgh Review " received this poor little 
book with a harsh and chaffing critique ; and 
Byron answered with the sharp satire entitled 
" English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, " 
which created a great sensation in British liter- 
ary circles. In this work, the nettled young- 
poet opened hot batteries of abuse against 
many famous literary contemporaries, an 
achievement for which in after years he was 
heartily sorry. 

In the summer of 1809, Byron began his 
first long tour in Europe, attended by his 
friend Hobhouse (afterwards Lord Broughton). 
Landing at Lisbon, they crossed Spain, and 
travelled onward to Albania and the cities of 
Greece and Asia Minor, visiting Yannina, 
Parnassus, Delphi, Athens, Smyrna, and Con- 
stantinople. His introduction to Ali Pasha, 
his life among the Franciscan monks, his 
swimming from Sestos to Abydos. and the 
composition of the first two cantos of " Childe 
Harold," were among the remarkable features 
of this romantic journey of more than two 
years' duration. This fragment of " Childe 
Harold" was published in London in 181 2, and 



INTRODUCTION. 



exactly hit the popular taste. As the author 
wrote : " I awoke one morning, and found my- 
self famous." Byron was borne aloft on the 
vast wave of enthusiasm, and became the lion 
of the drawing-rooms and clubs, a dandy, a 
lady-killer, and a man of fashion. 

In 1 8 13 Byron made an offer of marriage to 
the daughter of Sir Ralph Milbanke, a Baronet 
in the County of Durham. She was not only 
a person of great prospective wealth (since her 
mother was sister and co-heiress of Lord Went- 
worth), but had been finely educated, and was 
a paragon of many virtues. She astonished 
the aspiring suitor by declining his offer ; and 
yet the two young people continued their cor- 
respondence, on the basis of Platonic friend- 
ship. After more than a year, during which 
time Byron had proposed to and been rejected 
by another woman, he made a second attempt 
at winning Miss Milbanke, and this time unfor- 
tunately succeeded. They were married Janu- 
ary 2d, 181 5, and lived together but a single 
year. At first, he admired his patrician bride, 
and almost loved her ; but he soon found his 
pleasures away from home, where incompati- 
bilities of character developed amain. His 



INTRODUCTION. 



extravagance resulted in nine executions being 
placed in his house during this single year. 
Lady Byron, wounded to the quick by his 
astonishing conduct, charitably supposed that 
he was insane, until a careful investigation and 
enquiries showed that he was perfectly sane, 
but extraordinarily corrupt. Lady Byron stated 
to Harriet Beecher Stowe that before his mar- 
riage he entered upon an unfortunate intrigue 
with his half-sister, Mrs. Leigh, and that this 
amour was kept up openly after the marriage. 
This ghastly story is not regarded either as 
proven or as discredited, because there is some 
evidence for it, and apparently more against it. 
Mr. Lushington, the lawyer, advised Lady 
Byron to secure a separation, for some unknown 
reason. In December she gave birth to a 
daughter, Augusta Ada, afterwards Countess of 
Lovelace ; and the very next month she went 
to her father's country estate, from whence she 
wrote to her husband that she would never 
live with him again. It is believed that the 
deserted man bore the loss quite without 
anguish. 

After Lady Byron's separation, a wild storm 
of social acrimony burst around the poet, until 
b 



INTRODUCTION. 



then such a universal favourite. Perhaps the 
Leigh matter was known and believed by the 
society leaders, for scarcely anything else can 
account for the loathing and contempt with 
which Byron was hooted out of sight. Full of 
defiant pride, with his heart almost breaking 
the dethroned favourite left England in April, 
1816. It was his desire and his destiny never 
to return. 

Landing at Ostend, the exile ascended the 
Rhine, in the companionship of his travelling 
physician, Dr. Polidori. During a sojourn 
near the Lake of Geneva, he met Shelley and 
Miss Godwin (Mrs. Shelley). In their com- 
pany was Miss Clairmont, by whom Byron 
had a daughter, Allegra. 

During this pleasant summer by the lake 
the poet composed the third canto of * k Childe 
Harold," " The Prisoner of Chillon," and 
" Manfred." 

Another long episode of his life passed at 
Venice, where he dwelt for most of the next 
three years. — a period in which he mingled the 
loftiest and richest poetic work with a career 
of low and miscellaneous debauchery. During 
this period he wrote " The Lament of Tasso," 



INTRODUCTION. 



'' Beppo," -'Mazeppa," and four cantos of 
" Don Juan," which is perhaps the grandest 
and most original of his works. This unri- 
valled masterpiece was issued in instalments, 
and anonymously, and received the maledic- 
tions and wrathful reproaches of most critics. 

While at Venice Byron delivered to Moore a 
manuscript autobiography, chiefly concerned 
with his married life, and abounding in spicy 
details concerning well-known English person- 
ages. Moore disposed of this treasure-trove 
to John Murray, the publisher, but that gentle- 
man, after consulting with Mrs. Leigh and the 
writer's executor, consigned the work to the 
flames. Much of it was of such a nature that 
it could never have been published. 

The grand passion of Byron's life, and that in 
which he showed strongest constancy and feel- 
ing, was his love for the Countess Guiccioli, 
the young and beautiful daughter of Count 
Gamba, and the wife of the wealthy old Count 
Guiccioli, a noble of the Romagna. She was 
a singularly attractive blonde, with abundant 
golden hair ; a creature of infinite sentiment, 
unusual sweetness of character, warmth of 
affection, and disinterestedness. Byron and 



INTRODUCTION. 



La Guiccioli met early in the year 1819, and 
they fell desperately in love with each other. 
An ardent intrigue immediately sprang up be- 
tween them, and within little more than a year 
the Countess secured from the Pope a judicial 
separation from her too complaisant old spouse, 
renouncing with him the greater part of her 
wealth. 

In 1 81 9 and later Byron dwelt at Ravenna, 
and indulged his love of mystery and revolt by 
joining the Carbonari and other secret socie- 
ties. His comrades, Count • Gamba and his 
son, also joined the revolutionary ranks, and 
were quickly exiled from the Papal States, and 
fled to Pisa. During his two years at Ravenna 
the poet produced " The Prophecy of Dante," 
" Marino Faliero," " The Blues," " Sardanapa- 
lus," "Letters on Pope," " The Two Foscari," 
" Cain," "The Vision of Judgment," and 
11 Heaven and Earth." 

In 1821 Byron followed his mistress and her 
family to Pisa, where he remained for nearly 
two years, occupying the Lanfranchi Palace. 
The Shelleys also were dwelling at Pisa at the 
time of his arrival. Byron conceived the idea 
of a new quarterly magazine, in which he and 



INTRODUCTION. 



Shelley could publish their future writings, 
Leigh Hunt being the editor. Hunt came 
over to Italy with his large family, and lived 
for a long time at Fisa, arranging for this 
strange work. Shelley concluded to do but 
little writing for the magazine and to accept 
none of its profits ; and in the summer of the 
same year he was drowned in the Mediterra- 
nean, and thus removed forever from the scene. 
" The Liberal Magazine " was published for a 
year, but met with little success, while Byron 
and Hunt quarrelled incessantly. 

The last Italian sojourn of the poet was at 
Genoa, where La Guiccioli remained in her 
semi-conjugal relations with him. It has been 
confidently stated, and quite as earnestly de- 
nied, that his affection had already begun to 
wane, and that the golden-haired Italian beauty 
had lost her charm for him. There is more 
certainty in the fact that he had latterly found 
that the public showed comparatively little in- 
terest in his new poems, and this discovery 
filled him with chagrin. Evidently the time 
had come for another great change in his life. 

A noble and heroic impulse now seized this 
unfortunate child of genius. The cause of lib- 



INTRODUCTION. 



erty stood then in peril in the most venerable 
of classic lands, and he freely gave towards its 
succour the purse of a wealthy man, the sword 
of a British peer, and the life of a transcendent 
genius. The provinces of Greece were then in 
full revolt against the despotism of Turkey, 
and Byron entered their service as a volunteer. 
Accompanied by Count Pietro Gamba, the 
brother of La Guiccioli, he sailed from Genoa, 
and after sojourning for a time at Cephalonia, 
with Shelley's friend Trelawney, he reached 
Missolonghi, a Greek city then threatened by 
the Turkish fleet. Here he displayed remark- 
able executive ability in fortifying the port, 
reconciling the rivalries of intriguing Greek 
chieftains, and holding in discipline the wild 
Suliote bands which composed the garrison. 
All manner of enthusiasts and adventurers were 
represented here, — volunteers from England, 
Italy, Germany, Sweden, America, — ambitious 
soldiers of fortune, visionary Philhellenes, and 
turbulent native troops, and the Turkish war- 
ships from time to time swooped along the 
coast with roaring broadsides. With lavish 
outlays from his private purse for the merce- 
nary, and with fearless repressive measures for 



INTRODUCTION. 



the mutinous, Byron restored his district to or- 
der and efficiency. The Greek revolutionary 
government had determined to test their power 
and risk their future by an expedition to be- 
siege Lepanto, then in the hands of the Mos- 
lems ; and Lord Byron was appointed to the 
high and responsible position of commander- 
in-chief of this army. 

But destiny robbed the hero of this glory. 
In the abominable climate and unhealthy condi- 
tions of Missolonghi, — a mud-bank girt about 
with swamps, — and himself often wet through 
during his long rides, his health began to break, 
and he became the victim of rheumatic tortures, 
convulsions, and fevers. Amid his fatigues and 
pains, however, he said : " I will stick by the 
cause as long as a cause exists." His medical 
attendance was incompetent, and treated him 
to profuse bleedings just when he most needed 
strengthening. At last inflammation of the 
brain set in, followed by a long lethargy. He 
tried in vain to frame messages for his wife, his 
child, and his sister. His last words were : 
" Now I shall go to sleep," and then, on the 
19th of April, 1824, he closed his eyes forever. 

Amid the profound grief of the officers and 



INTRODUCTION. 



soldiers of the Greek nation the body of Byron 
was laid to rest, for a time, in the church at 
Missolonghi, where Marco Bozzaris and other 
heroes had been buried. During this splendid 
military and ecclesiastical funeral the Greek 
cannon sounded thirty-seven minute-guns, — 
one for each year of his age, — and the dull 
booming of the hostile Turkish batteries came 
down on the wind from Patras. 

When it was decided to take Byron's body 
back to Mother England, application was for- 
mally made for its interment in Westminster 
Abbey. This request was promptly refused by 
the Dean, and the burial took place in the 
family vault, not far from Newstead Abbey. 
Not one of the neighbouring families of nobility 
and gentry was represented at the obsequies. 

At one time, according to Trelawney, Byron 
entertained hopes of becoming King of Greece, 
especially in view of the fact that the warring 
factions of that unhappy land could be united 
only under the firm control of a sovereign of 
foreign origin. He also had a desire to be 
appointed Greek ambassador to the United 
States, believing that he could influence the 
Great Republic to acknowledge the indepen- 



INTRODUCTION. 



dence of the Hellenic nation, and that this act 
would be followed by similar recognitions on 
the part of the European powers. He had de- 
voted much study to American topics, espe- 
cially while the transatlantic artist West was 
leisurely painting portraits of himself and the 
Countess Guiccioli at Pisa. Being the most 
bigoted of aristocrats, he could hardly compare 
the new republic favourably with the older 
realms of Europe ; but as a country of and 
for the people he respected it greatly, and 
often spoke its praises in enthusiastic terms. 

He was one of the most generous of men, 
and always beloved even by his servants. It 
is said that he never lost a friend, and that his 
passionate susceptibilities and liberal impulses 
bound closely to him many men of varying 
characters. The prevalent gloom of his heart 
was usually covered with an external gayety of 
spirits, which made him a general favourite. 
And yet he was an intense aristocrat, and 
either as poet or peer held himself as high 
above the vulgar herd, distinct, unknown, and 
romantic. 

Byron was always a sceptic, so far as regards 
matters of religion, without, indeed, logical and 



INTRODUCTION. 



reasonable justifications, but from the force of 
circumstances, prejudices, and ignorance. His 
beloved college-companion, Matthews, was an 
atheist ; the friend of his later years, Shelley, 
also stood as an unbeliever. But the latter had 
frequent doubts of Byron's firmness in unbe- 
lief, and stigmatized him to Trelawney as " no 
better than a Christian." And yet the majesty 
of religion and its terrors took a powerful hold 
upon his heart, and during the later years of 
his life the poet fasted rigorously on Fridays, 
and knelt when religious processions were 
passing by. 

Byron showed an amiable and delightful trait 
in his love of animals, which began in his child- 
hood and grew with his growth. Among his 
cherished pets were a bear, a wolf, several bull- 
dogs, and the celebrated Newfoundland dog, 
Boatswain, which was buried at Newstead, in 
a vault graced by an epitaph from the poet's 
own hand. During his first Greek voyage, he 
shot an eaglet, near the Gulf of Lepanto, and 
suffered such deep grief for this act that he 
resolved never to slay a bird again. 

Byron came into the world with two club 
feet, and both legs withered to the knee ; and 



INTRODUCTION. 



by an accident attending his birth the right 
foot received further distortion. Some partly- 
successful attempts were made to improve these 
faulty members, by steel splints and otherwise, 
but he always remained lame and deformed, 
and his extreme sensitiveness in this regard 
cast a cloud over his entire life. 

Otherwise Byron was one of the handsomest 
men of his time, with fine features, a colourless 
complexion, eyes of a light blue or grayish hue, 
and profuse curls of dark auburn hair. A nat- 
ural tendency to corpulence he restrained by a 
rigid and abstemious diet, nearly starving him- 
self to avoid grossness of figure. 

The Poetical Tales were written in 1813-23, 
and include "The Giaour," "The Bride of 
Abydos," " The Corsair," " Lara," " The Siege 
of Corinth," " Parisina," " Mazeppa," and 
" The Island." They form a group of narra- 
tives of matchless force and vigour, and their 
novelty and originality instantly captivated the 
public. Indeed, it was supposed by many peo- 
ple that the poet himself was the hero of all 
these adventurous chronicles ; and although 
this would have been impossible, yet their 
magnificent descriptions and wonderful epi- 



INTRODUCTION. 



sodes could not have been written unless the 
author had been familiar with the scenery of 
the classic seas, the life of the old Levantine 
islands and ports. Athens and the Morea, the 
iEgean Isles, the mountains of Albania and 
their picturesque inhabitants, were almost as 
familiar to him as his own Nottinghamshire. 
Therefore these tales are remarkable above all 
for what the moderns call " local colour," — their 
deflniteness, certainty, and intense vigorous- 
ness. These traits commended the stories to 
the people, who welcomed them with an incred- 
ible enthusiasm. The " Corsair " was written 
in a fortnight, in 1S13, and fourteen thousand 
copies were sold in a single day. "Lara" 
came out during the following year, and met 
with a pronounced success. 

The vices of Lord Byron were largely those 
of his time, an era of libertinism and senti- 
ment, — a sentiment which was very real then 
but which at times seems forced and fantastic, 
when studied by men of the present age, with 
its practical and business-like tendencies, and 
its industrial, inventive, and commercial activi- 
ties. But however archaic some of his work 
now seems, his masterpieces glow with the un- 



INTRODUCTION. 



mistakable and imperishable light of genius, 
and are wonderfully interpenetrated with pas- 
sion and wit. The whole civilized world, from 
the Golden Horn to the Golden Gate, welcomed 
with rapture his transcendent utterances, and 
when he died at Missolonghi, — self- sacrificed 
on the altar of Freedom, — many nations 
mourned the departure of this wilful, way- 
ward, dazzling soul. 

M. F. SWEETSER. 



THE CORSAIR. 



LORD BYRON 

TO 

THOMAS MOORE, Esq. 

My dear Moore, — I dedicate to you the 
last production with which I shall trespass on 
public patience, and your indulgence, for some 
years ; and I own that I feel anxious to avail 
myself of this latest and only opportunity of 
adorning my pages with a name consecrated by 
unshaken public principle, and the most un- 
doubted and various talents. While Ireland 
ranks you among the firmest of her patriots ; 
while you stand alone the first of her bards in 
her estimation, and Britain repeats and ratifies 
the decree, permit one whose only regret, since 
our first acquaintance, has been the years he 
had lost before it commenced, to add the hum- 
ble but sincere suffrage of friendship to the 
voice of more than one nation. It will at least 
prove to you that I have neither forgotten the 
c 



DEDICATION. 



gratification derived from your society, nor 
abandoned the prospect of its renewal, when- 
ever your leisure or inclination allows you to 
atone to your friends for too long an absence. 
It is said among those friends, I trust truly, 
that you are engaged in the composition of a 
poem whose scene will be laid in the East ; 
none can do those scenes so much justice. 
The wrongs of your own country, the magnifi- 
cent and fiery spirit of her sons, the beauty and 
feeling of her daughters, may there be found ; 
and Collins, when he denominated his Oriental 
his Irish Eclogues, was not aware how true, at 
least, was a part of his parallel. Your imagi- 
nation will create a warmer sun, and less 
clouded sky : but wildness, tenderness, and 
originality are part of your national claim of 
Oriental descent, to which you have already 
thus far proved your title more clearly than the 
most zealous of your country's antiquarians. 

May I add a few words on a subject on 
which all men are supposed to be fluent, and 
none agreeable ? — Self. I have written much, 
and published more than enough to demand a 
longer silence than I now meditate ; but, for 
some years to come, it is my intention to tempt 



DEDICATION. 



no further the award of "gods, men, nor 
columns." In the present composition I have 
attempted not the most difficult, but perhaps 
the best adapted measure to our language, the 
good old and now neglected heroic couplet. 
The stanza of Spenser is perhaps too slow and 
dignified for narrative ; though, I confess, it is 
the measure most after my own heart. Scott 
alone, of the present generation, has hitherto 
completely triumphed over the fatal facility of 
the octo-syllabic verse ; and this is not the 
least victory of his fertile and mighty genius. 
In blank verse, Milton, Thomson, and our 
dramatists, are the beacons that shine along 
the deep, but warn us from the rough and 
barren rock on which they are kindled. The 
heroic couplet is not the most popular measure, 
certainly : but as I did not deviate into the 
other from a wish to flatter what is called 
public opinion, I shall quit it without further 
apology, and take my chance once more with 
that versification in which I have hitherto pub- 
lished nothing but compositions whose former 
circulation is part of my present, and will be of 
my future regret. 

With regard to my story, and stories in 



DEDICATION. 



general, I should have been glad to have ren- 
dered my personages more perfect and amiable, 
if possible, inasmuch as I have been sometimes 
criticised, and considered no less responsible 
for their deeds and qualities than if all had 
been personal. Be it so. If I have deviated 
into the gloomy vanity of " drawing from self," 
the pictures are probably like, since they are 
unfavourable ; and if not, those who know me 
are undeceived, and those who do not, I have 
little interest in undeceiving. I have no par- 
ticular desire that any but my acquaintance 
should think the author better than the beings 
of his imagining ; but I cannot help a little sur- 
prise, and perhaps amusement, at some odd 
critical exceptions in the present instance, when 
I see several bards (far more deserving, I 
allow), in very reputable plight, and quite 
exempted from all participation in the faults of 
those heroes, who, nevertheless, might be found 
with little more morality than " The Giaour," 
and perhaps — but no — I must admit Childe 
Harold to be a very repulsive personage ; and 
as to his identity, those who like it must give 
him whatever alias they please. 

If, however, it were worth while to remove 



DEDICATION. 



the impression, it might be of some service to 
me, that the man who is alike the delight of his 
readers and his friends, the poet of all circles, 
and the idol of his own, permits me here and 
elsewhere to subscribe myself, most truly and 
affectionately, his obedient servant, 

BYRON. 
January 2, 18 14. 




THE CORSAIR. 



CANTO THE FIRST. 
- nessun maggior dolore, 



Che ricordarsi del tempo felice 

Nella miseria, ." DANTE 



" O'er the glad waters of the dark-blue sea,* 
Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free. 
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, 
Survey our empire, and behold our home ! 
These are our realms, no limits to their sway — 
Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey. 

* The time in this poem may seem too short for the 
occurrences, but the whole of the ^Egean isles are within 
a few hours' sail of the continent, and the reader must be 
kind enough to take the wind as I have often found it. 



THE CORSAIR. 



Ours the wild life in tumult still to range, 
From toil to rest, and joy in every change. 
Oh, who can tell? not thou, luxurious slave ! 
Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave ; 
Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease ! 
Whom slumber soothes not — pleasure cannot 

please — 
Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried, 
And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide, 
The exulting sense —the pulse's maddening play, 
That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way ? 
That for itself can woo the approaching fight, 
And turn what some deem danger to delight ; 
That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal, 
And where the feebler faint — can only feel — 
Feel — to the rising bosom's inmost core, 
Its hope awaken and its spirit soar? 
No dread of death — if with us die our foes — 
Save that it seems even duller than repose : 
Come when it will — we snatch the life of life — 
When lost — what recks it — by disease or strife ? 
Let him who crawls enamour'd of decay, 
Cling to his couch, and sicken years away ; 
Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head ; 
- Ours — the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed. 
While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul, 
Ours with one pang — one bound — escapes control. 
His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave, 
And they who loathed his life may gild his grave : 



THE CORSAIR. 



Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed, 
When Ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead. 
For us, even banquets fond regret supply 
In the red cup that crowns our memory : 
And the brief epitaph in danger's day, 
When those who win at length divide the prey, 
And cry, Remembrance saddening o'er each brow, 
How had the brave who fell exulted now I " 



Such were the notes that from the Pirate's isle, 

Around the kindling watch-fire rang the while ; 

Such were the sounds that thrill'd the rocks along, 

And unto ears as rugged seem'd a song! 

In scatter'd groups upon the golden sand, 

They game — carouse — converse — or whet the 

brand ; 
Select the arms — to each his blade assign, 
And careless eye the blood that dims its shine ; 
Repair the boat, replace the helm or oar, 
While others straggling muse along the shore; 
For the wild bird the busy springes set, 
Or spread beneath the sun the dripping net ; 
Gaze where some distant sail a speck supplies, 
With all the thirsting eye of Enterprise ; 
Tell o'er the tales of many a night of toil. 
And marvel where they next shall seize a spoil : 
No matter where — their chief's allotment this; 
Theirs, to believe no prey nor plan amiss. 



THE CORSAIR. 



But who that Chief ? his name on every shore 
Is famed and fear'd — they ask and know no more. 
With these he mingles not but to command ; 
Few are his words, but keen his eye and hand. 
Ne'er seasons he with mirth their jovial mess, 
But they forgive his silence for success. 
Ne'er for his lip the purpling cup they fill, 
That goblet passes him untasted still — 
And for his fare — the rudest of his crew 
Would that, in turn, have pass'd untasted too : 
Earth's coarsest bread, the garden's homeliest roots, 
And scarce the summer luxury of fruits, 
His short repast in humbleness supply 
W T ith all a hermit's board would scarce deny. 
But while he shuns the grosser joys of sense, 
His mind seems nourished by that abstinence. 
"Steer to that shore! " — they sail. "Do this!'' 

— 'tis done! 
" Now form and follow me ! " — the spoil is won. 
Thus prompt his accents and his actions still, 
And all obey and few inquire his will ; 
To such, brief answer and contemptuous eye 
Convey reproof, nor further deign reply. 



" A sail ! — a sail ! " — a promised prize to Hope ! 
Her nation — flag — how speaks the telescope ? 
No prize, alas ! but yet a welcome sail : 
The blood-red signal glitters in the gale. 



THE CORSAIR. 5 

Yes — she is ours — a home returning bark — 

Blow fair, thou breeze ! — she anchors ere the dark. 

Already doubled is the cape — our bay 

Receives that prow which proudly spurns the spray. 

How gloriously her gallant course she goes ! 

Her white wings flying — never from her foes — 

She walks the waters like a thing of life, 

And seems to dare the elements to strife. 

Who would not brave the battle-fire — the wreck — 

To move the monarch of her peopled deck? 



Hoarse o'er her side the rustling cable rings ; 

The sails are furl'd; and anchoring, round she 

swings ; 
And gathering loiterers on the land discern 
Her boat descending from the latticed stern. 
'T is mann'd — the oars keep concert to the strand 
Till grates her keel upon the shallow sand. 
Hail to the welcome shout ! — the friendly speech ! 
When hand grasps hand uniting on the beach : 
The smile, the question, and the quick reply, 
And the heart's promise of festivity ! 



The tidings spread, and gathering grows the crowd : 
The hum of voices, and the laughter loud, 
And woman's gentler anxious tone is heard — 



THE CORSAIR. 



Friends' — husbands' — lovers' names in each dear 

word : 
11 Oh ! are they safe ? we ask not of success , 
But shall we see them ? will their accents bless? 
From where the battle roars, the billows chafe, 
They doubtless boldly did — but who are safe ? 
Here let them haste to gladden and surprise, 
And kiss the doubt from these delighted eyes ! " 



" Where is our chief? for him we bear report — 
And doubt that joy — which hails our coming — 

short ; 
Yet thus sincere — 't is cheering, though so brief ; 
But, Juan ! instant guide us to our chief : 
Our greeting paid, we '11 feast on our return, 
And all shall hear what each may wish to learn." 
Ascending slowly by the rock-hewn way, 
To where his watch-tower beetles o'er the bay 
By bushy brake, and wild flowers blossoming, 
And freshness breathing from each silver spring, 
Whose scatter'd streams from granite basins burst, 
Leap into life, and sparkling woo your thirst ; 
From crag to cliff they mount. — Near yonder 

cave, 
What lonely straggler looks along the wave ? 
In pensive posture leaning on the brand, 
Not oft a resting-staff to that red hand? 
" 'T is he — 't is Conrad — here, as wont — alone ; 



THE CORSAIR. 



On — Juan ! — on — and make our purpose known. 
The bark he views — and tell him we would greet 
His ear with tidings he must quickly meet : 
We dare not yet approach — thou know'st his mood, 
When strange or uninvited steps intrude." 



Him Juan sought, and told of their intent : 
He spake not, but a sign express' d assent. 
These Juan calls — they come — to their salute 
He bends him slightly, but his lips are mute. 
"These letters, Chief, are from the Greek — the 

spy, 
Who still proclaims our spoil or peril nigh : 
Whate'er his tidings, we can well report 
Much that" — "Peace, peace!" — he cuts their 

prating short. 
Wondering they turn, abash'd, while each to each 
Conjecture whispers in his muttering speech : 
They watch his glance with many a stealing look, 
To gather how that eye the tidings took ; 
But, this as if he guess'd, with head aside, 
Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or pride, 
He read the scroll — " My tablets, Juan, hark — 
Where is Gonsalvo ? " 

" In the anchor'd bark." 
"There let him stay — to him this order bear. 
Back to your duty — for my course prepare : 



8 THE CORSAIR. 

Myself this enterprise to-night will share." 
"To-night, Lord Conrad?" 

"Ay ! at set of sun : 
The breeze will freshen when the day is done. 
My corslet — cloak — one hour and we are gone. 
Sling on thy bugle — see that free from rust 
My carbine-lock springs worthy of my trust ; 
Be the edge sharpen'd of my boarding-brand, 
And give its guard more room to fit my hand. 
This let the armourer with speed dispose ; 
Last time, it more fatigued my arm than foes : 
Mark that the signal-gun be duly fired, 
To tell us when the hour of stay 's expired." 



They make obeisance, and retire in haste, 
Too soon to seek again the watery waste : 
Yet they repine not — so that Conrad guides; 
And who dare question aught that he decides ? 
That man of loneliness and mystery, 
Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh ; 
Whose name appals the fiercest of his crew, 
And tints each swarthy cheek with sallower hue; 
Still sways their souls with that commanding art 
That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart. 
What is that spell, that thus his lawless train 
Confess and envy, yet oppose in vain ? 
What should it be, that thus their faith can bind ? 
The power of Thought — the magic of the Mind ! 



THE CORSAIR. 



Link'd with success, assumed and kept with skill, 
That moulds another's weakness to its will ; 
Wields with their hands, but, still to these un- 
known, 
Makes even their mightiest deeds appear his own. 
Such hath it been — shall be : beneath the sun 
The many still must labour for the one ! 
'T is nature's doom — but let the wretch who toils, 
Accuse not, hate not him who wears the spoils. 
Oh ! if he knew the weight of splendid chains, 
How light the balance of his humbler pains ! 



Unlike the heroes of each ancient race, 
Demons in act, but gods at least in face, 
In Conrad's form seems little to admire, 
Though his dark eyebrow shades a glance of fire: 
Robust but not Herculean — to the sight 
No giant frame sets forth his common height ; 
Yet, in the whole, who paused to look again, 
Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgar men ; 
They gaze and marvel how — and still confess 
That thus it is, but why they cannot guess. 
Sun-burnt his cheek, his forehead high and pale 
The sable curls in wild profusion veil ; 
And oft perforce his rising lip reveals 
The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce conceals. 
Though smooth his voice, and calm his general 



10 THE CORSAIR. 

Still seems there something he would not have 

seen ; 
His features' deepening lines and varying hue 
At times attracted, yet perplex'd the view, 
As if within that murkiness of mind 
Work'd feelings fearful, and yet undefined ; 
Such might it be — that none could truly tell — 
Too close inquiry his stern glance would quell. 
There breathe but few whose aspect might defy 
The full encounter of his searching eye ; 
He had the skill, when Cunning's gaze would seek 
To probe his heart and watch his changing cheek, 
At once the observer's purpose to espy, 
And on himself roll back his scrutiny, 
Lest he to Conrad rather should betray 
Some secret thought, than drag that chief's to day. 
There was a laughing devil in his sneer, 
That raised emotions both of rage and fear ; 
And where his frown of hatred darkly fell, 
Hope withering fled, and Mercy sigh'd farewell ! 



Slight are the outward signs of evil thought, 

Within — within — 't was there the spirit wrought ! 

Love shows all changes : Hate, Ambition, Guile, 

Betray no further than the bitter smile : 

The lip's least curl, the lightest paleness thrown 

Along the govern'd aspect, speak alone 

Of deeper passions, and to judge their mien, 



THE CORSAIR. II 

He who would see, must be himself unseen. 
Then — with the hurried tread, the upward eye, 
The clenched hand, the pause of agony, 
That listens, starting, lest the step too near 
Approach intrusive on that mood of fear : 
Then — with each feature working from the heart, 
With feelings loosed to strengthen — not depart : 
That rise, convulse, contend — that freeze, or glow, 
Flush in the cheek, or damp upon the brow ; 
Then, Stranger, if thou canst, and tremblest not, 
Behold his soul — the rest that soothes his lot! 
Mark how that lone and blighted bosom sears 
The scathing thought of execrated years ! 
Behold — but who hath seen, or e'er shall see, 
Man as himself — the secret spirit free ? 



Yet was not Conrad thus by Nature sent 
To lead the guilty — guilt's worst instrument : 
His soul was changed, before his deeds had driven 
Him forth to war with man and forfeit heaven. 
Warp'd by the world in Disappointment's school, 
In words too wise, in conduct there a fool ; 
Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop, 
Doom'd by his very virtues for a dupe, 
He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill, 
And not the traitors who betray' d him still ; 
Nor deem'd that gifts bestow'd on better men 
Had left him joy and means to give again. 



12 THE CORSAIR. 



Fear'd, shunn'd, belied, ere youth had lost her 

force, 
He hated man too much to feel remorse, 
And thought the voice of wrath a sacred call, 
To pay the injuries of some on all. 
He knew himself a villain, but he deem'd 
The rest no better than the thing he seem'd ; 
And scorn'd the best as hypocrites who hid 
Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did. 
He knew himself detested, but he knew 
The hearts that loathed him, crouch'd and dreaded 

too 
Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt 
From all affection and from all contempt : 
His name could sadden, and his acts surprise ; 
But they that fear'd him dared not to despise. 
Man spurns the worm, but pauses ere he wake 
The slumbering venom of the folded snake : 
The first may turn, but not avenge the blow; 
The last expires, but leaves no living foe ; 
Fast to the doom'd offender's form it clings, 
And he may crush — not conquer — still it stings ! 



None are all evil ; quickening round his heart, 
One softer feeling would not yet depart : 
Oft could he sneer at others, as beguiled 
By passions worthy of a fool or child ; 
Yet 'gainst that passion vainly still he strove, 



THE CORSAIR. 13 

And even in him it asks the name of Love ! 

Yes, it was love — unchangeable — unchanged, 

Felt but for one from whom he never ranged ; 

Though fairest captives daily met his eye, 

He shunn'd, nor sought, but coldly pass'd them by : 

Though many a beauty droop'd in prison'd bower, 

None ever soothed his most unguarded hour. 

Yes — it was Love — if thoughts of tenderness, 

Tried in temptation, strengthen'd by distress, 

Unmoved by absence, firm in every clime, 

And yet — oh, more than all ! — untired by time ; 

Which nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile, 

Could render sullen were she near to smile, 

Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent 

On her one murmur of his discontent ; 

Which still would meet with ioy, 'with calmness 

part, 
Lest that his look of grief should reach her heart : 
Which naught removed, nor menaced to remove — 
If there be love in mortals — this was love ! 
He was a villain — ay, reproaches shower 
On him — but not the passion, nor its power, 
Which only proved, all other virtues gone, 
Nor guilt itself could quench this loveliest one ! 



He paused a moment — till his hastening men 
Pass'd the first winding downward to the glen. 
" Strange tidings ! — many a peril have I past, 



14 THE CORSAIR. 

Nor know I why this next appears the last ! 

Yet so my heart forebodes, but must not fear, 

Nor shall my followers find me falter here. 

'T is rash to meet, but surer death to wait 

Till here they hunt us to undoubted fate ; 

And if my plan but hold, and Fortune smile, 

We '11 furnish mourners for our funeral pile 

Ay, let them slumber — peaceful be their dreams ! 

Morn ne'er awoke them with such brilliant beams 

As kindle high to-night (but blow, thou breeze ! ) 

To warn these slow avengers of the seas. 

Now to Medora — Oh ! my sinking heart, 

Long may her own be lighter than thou art : 

Yet was I brave — mean boast where all are brave ! 

Even insects sting for aught they seek to save. 

This common courage which with brutes we share 

That owes its deadliest efforts to despair, 

Small merit claims ; but 't was my nobler hope 

To teach my few with numbers still to cope. 

Long have I led them — not to vainly bleed : 

No medium now — we perish or succeed ! 

So let it be — it irks not me to die ; 

But thus to urge them whence they cannot fly 

My lot hath long had little of my care, 

But chafes my pride thus baffled in the snare : 

Is this my skill? my craft ? to set at last 

Hope, power, and life upon a single cast ? 

Oh, Fate ! — accuse thy folly, not thy fate ; 

She may redeem thee still — nor yet too late." 



I 



THE CORSAIR. 15 



Thus with himself communion held he, till 
He reach'd the summit of his tower-crown'd hill: 
There at the portal paused — for wild and soft 
He heard those accents never heard too oft ; 
Through the high lattice far yet sweet they rung, 
And these the notes his bird of beauty sung : 

" Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells, 
Lonely and lost to light for evermore, 

Save when to thine my heart responsive swells, 
Then trembles into silence as before. 

" There, in its centre, a sepulchral lamp 
Burns the slow flame, eternal, — but unseen ; 

Which not the darkness of despair can damp, 
Though vain its ray as it had never been. 

" Remember me — Oh ! pass not thou my grave 
Without one thought whose relics there recline : 

The only pang my bosom dare not brave 
Must be to find forgetfulness in thine. 

" My fondest — faintest — latest accents hear : 
Grief for the dead not virtue can reprove ; 

Then give me all I ever ask'd — a tear, 
The first — last — sole reward of so much love ! " 

He pass'd the portal — cross'd the corridore, 
And reach'd the chamber as the strain gave o'er : 
11 My own Medora ! — sure thy song is sad — " 



l6 THE CORSAIR. 

" In Conrad's absence wouldst thou have it glad ? 

Without thine ear to listen to my lay, 

Still must my song my thoughts, my soul betray : 

Still must each accent to my bosom suit, 

My heart unhush'd — although my lips were mute! 

Oh ! many a night on this lone couch reclined, 

My dreaming fear with storms hath wing'd the 

wind, 
And deem'd the breath that faintly fann'd thy sail 
The murmuring prelude of the ruder gale ; 
Though soft, it seem'd the low prophetic dirge, 
That mourn'd thee floating on the savage surge : 
Still would I rise to rouse the beacon fire, 
Lest spies less true should let the blaze expire : 
And many a restless hour outwatch'd each star, 
And morning came — and still thou wert afar. 
Oh ! how the chill blast on my bosom blew, 
And day broke dreary on my troubled view, 
And still I gazed and gazed — and not a prow 
Was granted to my tears, my truth, my vow ! 
At length — 't was noon — I hail'd and blest the 

mast 
That met my sight — it near'd — Alas, it pass'd '. 
Another came — O God ! 't was thine at last ! 
Would that those days were over ! wilt thou ne'er, 
My Conrad, learn the joys of peace to share? 
Sure thou hast more than wealth, and many a home 
As bright as this invites us not to roam ; 
Thou know'st it is not peril that I fear, 



THE CORSAIR. 17 

I only tremble when thou art not here ; 
Then not for mine, but that far dearer life, 
Which flies from love and languishes for strife — 
How strange that heart, to me so tender still, 
Should war with nature and its better will! " 

"Yea, strange indeed — that heart hath long been 

changed ; 
Worm-like 't was trampled — adder-like avenged, 
Without one hope on earth beyond thy love, 
And scarce a glimpse of mercy from above. 
Yet the same feeling which thou dost condemn, 
My very love to thee is hate to them, 
So closely mingling here, that disentwined, 
I cease to love thee when I love mankind : 
Yet dread not this — the proof of all the past 
Assures the future that my love will last ; 
But — O Medora ! nerve thy gentler heart, 
This hour again — but not for long — we part." 
" This hour we part! — my heart foreboded this! 
Thus ever fade my fairy dreams of bliss. 
This hour — it cannot be — this hour away ! 
Yon bark hath hardly anchor'd in the bay : 
Her consort still is absent, and her crew 
Have need of rest before they toil anew : 
My love ! thou mock'st my weakness, and wouldst 

steel 
My breast before the time when it must feel ; 
But trifle now no more with my distress, 



l8 THE CORSAIR. 

Such mirth hath less of play than bitterness. 
Be silent, Conrad ! — dearest ! come and share 
The feast these hands delighted to prepare ; 
Light toil ! to cull and dress thy frugal fare ! 
See, I have pluck'd the fruit that promised best, 
And where not sure, perplex'd, but pleased, I guess'd 
At such as seem'd the fairest : thrice the hill 
My steps have wound to try the coolest rill ; 
Yes ! thy sherbet to-night will sweetly flow, 
See how it sparkles in its vase of snow ! 
The grape's gay juice thy bosom never cheers ; 
Thou more than Moslem when the cup appears : 
Think not I mean to chide — for I rejoice 
What others deem a penance is thy choice. 
But come, the board is spread ; our silver lamp 
Is trimm'd, and heeds not the Sirocco's damp 
Then shall my handmaids while the time along, 
And join with me the dance, or wake the song ; 
Or my guitar, which still thou lov'st to hear, 
Shall soothe or lull ; — or, should it vex thine ear, 
We '11 turn the tale, by Ariosto told, 
Of fair Olympia loved and left of old.* 
Why — thou wert worse than he who broke his vow 
To that lost damsel, shouldst thou leave me now ; 
Or-even that traitor chief — I 've seen thee smile, 
When the clear sky show'd Ariadne's Isle, 
Which I have pointed from these cliffs the while : 
And thus, half sportive, half in fear, I said, 
* Orlando Fiirioso, Canto 10. 




Her long fair hair lay floating 

o'er his arms, 
In all the wildness of dishevell'd 
charms. . . . 



THE CORSAIR. 21 

Lest time should raise that doubt to more than dread, 
Thus Conrad, too, will quit me for the main : 
And he deceived me — for — he came again ! " 

" Again — again — and oft again, my love ! 

If there be life below, and hope above, 

He will return — but now the moments bring 

The time of parting with redoubled wing: 

The why — the where — what boots it now to tell ? 

Since all must end in that wild word — farewell ! 

Yet would I fain — did time allow — disclose — 

Fear not — these are no formidable foes ; 

And here shall watch a more than wonted guard, 

For sudden siege and long defence prepared : 

Nor be thou lonely — though thy lord 's away, 

Our matrons and thy handmaids with thee stay : 

And this thy comfort — that when next we meet, 

Security shall make repose more sweet. 

List ! — 't is the bugle" — Juan shrilly blew — 

11 One kiss — one more — another — Oh ! Adieu ! '* 

She rose, she sprung, she clung to his embrace, 

Till his heart heaved beneath her hidden face, 

He dared not raise to his that deep-blue eye, 

Which downcast droop'd in tearless agony. 

Her long fair hair lay floating o'er his arms, 

In all the wildness of dishevell'd charms ; 

Scarce beat that bosom where his image dwelt 

So full — that feeling seem'd almost unfelt ! 

Hark — peals the thunder of the signal-gun ! 



22 THE CORSAIR. 

It told 'twas sunset — and he cursed that sun. 
Again — again — that form he madly press'd, 
Which mutely clasp'd, imploringly caress'd ! 
And tottering to the couch his bride he bore ; 
One moment gazed, as if to gaze no more ; 
Felt that for him earth held but her alone, 
Kiss'd her cold forehead — turn'd — is Conrad 
gone? 

xv. 

" And is he gone ? " — on sudden solitude 

How oft that fearful question will intrude ! 

" 'T was but an instant past — and here he stood ! 

And now " — without the portal's porch she rush'd 

And then at length her tears in freedom gush'd : 

Big, bright, and fast, unknown to her they fell ; 

But still her lips refused to send — " Farewell ! " 

For in that word, that fatal word — howe'er 

We promise, hope, believe — there breathes despair. 

O'er every feature of that still, pale face, 

Had sorrow fix'd what time can ne'er erase : 

The tender blue of that large loving eye 

Grew frozen with its gaze on vacancy. 

Till — oh, how far ! — it caught a glimpse of him, 

And then it flow'd, and frenzied seem'd to swim, 

Through those long, dark, and glistening lashes 

dew'd 
With drops of sadness oft to be renew'd. 
11 He 's gone ! " — against her heart that hand is 

driven, 



THE CORSAIR. 



Convulsed and quick — then gently raised to 

heaven ; 
She look'd, and saw the heaving of the main ; 
The white sail set — she dared not look again ; 
But turn'd with sickening soul within the gate — 
" It is no dream — and I am desolate ! " 



From crag to crag descending, swiftly sped 

Stern Conrad down, nor once he turned his head ; 

But shrunk whene'er the windings of his way 

Forced on his eye what he would not survey — 

His lone but lovely dwelling on the steep, 

That hail'd him first when homeward from the 

deep: 
And she — the dim and melancholy star, 
Whose ray of beauty reach'd him from afar, 
On her he must not gaze, he must not think, 
There he might rest — but on Destruction's brink : 
Yet once almost he stopp'd, and nearly gave 
His fate to chance, his projects to the wave ; 
But no — it must not be — a worthy chief 
May melt, but not betray to woman's grief. 
He sees his bark, he notes how fair the wind, 
And sternly gathers all his might of mind : 
Again he hurries on ; and as he hears 
The clang of tumult vibrate on his ears, 
The busy sounds, the bustle of the shore, 



24 THE CORSAIR. 



The shout, the signal, and the dashing oar; 
As marks his eye the seaboy on the mast, 
The anchors rise, the sails unfurling fast, 
The waving kerchiefs of the crowd that urge 
That mute adieu to those who stem the surge ; 
And more than all, his blood-red flag aloft, 
He marvell'd how his heart could seem so soft. 
Fire in his glance, and wildness in his breast, 
He feels of all his former self possest ; 
He bounds — he flies — until his footsteps reach 
The verge where ends the cliff, begins the beach, 
There checks his speed ; but pauses less to breathe 
The breezy freshness of the deep beneath, 
Than there his wonted statelier step renew ; 
Nor rush, disturb'd by haste, to vulgar view : 
For well had Conrad learn'd to curb the crowd, 
By arts that veil, and oft preserve the proud : 
His was the lofty port, the distant mien, 
That seems to shun the sight — and awes if seen : 
The solemn aspect, and the high-born eye, 
That checks low mirth, but lacks not courtesy ; 
All these he wielded to command assent ; 
But where he wish'd to win, so well unbent, 
That kindness cancell'd fear in those who heard, 
And-others' gifts show'd mean beside his word, 
When echo'd to the heart as from his own 
His deep yet tender melody of tone: , 
But such was foreign to his wonted mood, 
He cared not what he soften'd, but subdued ; 



THE CORSAIR. 2$ 



The evil passions of his youth had made 

Him value less who loved — than what obey'd. 



Around him mustering ranged his ready guard, 
Before him Juan stands — " Are all prepar'd ? " 
" They are — nay, more — embark'd : the latest 

boat 

Waits but my chief " 

" My sword and my capote." 
Soon firmly girded on, and lightly slung, 
His belt and cloak were o'er his shoulders flung : 
"Call Pedro here" — He comes — and Conrad 

bends 
With all the courtesy he deign'd his friends : 
" Receive these tablets, and peruse with care, 
Words of high trust and truth are graven there ; 
Double the guard, and when Anselmo's bark 
Arrives, let him alike these orders mark: 
In three days (serve the breeze) the sun shall shine 
On our return — till then all peace be thine ! " 
This said, his brother pirate's hand he wrung, 
Then to his boat with haughty gesture sprung. 
Flash 'd the dipt oars, and sparkling with the stroke, 
Around the waves' phosphoric * brightness broke : 
They gain the vessel — on the deck he stands — 

* By night, particularly in a warm latitude, every stroke 
of the oar, every motion of the boat or ship, is followed by a 
slight flash like sheet-lightning from the water. 



26 THE CORSAIR. 

Shrieks the shrill whistle — ply the busy hands : 
He marks how well the ship her helm obeys, 
How gallant all her crew — and deigns to praise. 
His eyes of pride to young Gonsalvo turn — 
Why doth he start, and inly seem to mourn ? 
Alas ! those eyes beheld his rocky tower, 
And live a moment o'er the parting hour ; 
She — his Medora — did she mark the prow ? 
Ah ! never loved he half so much as now ! 
But much must yet be done ere dawn of day — 
Again he mans himself and turns away ; 
Down to the cabin with Gonsalvo bends, 
And there unfolds his plan — his means — and 

ends; 
Before them burns the lamp, and spreads the chart, 
And all that speaks and aids the naval art : 
They to the midnight watch protract debate ; 
To anxious eyes what hour is ever late? 
Meantime the steady breeze serenely blew, 
And fast and falcon-like the vessel flew; 
Pass'd the high headlands of each clustering isle, 
To gain their port — long — long ere morning 

smile : 
And soon the night-glass through the narrow bay 
Discovers where the Pacha's galleys lay. 
Count they each sail, and mark how there supine 
The lights in vain o'er heedless Moslem shine. 
Secure, unnoted, Conrad's prow pass'd by, 
And anchor'd where his ambush meant to lie ; 



THE CORSAIR. 



27 



Screen'd from espial by the jutting cape, 
That rears on high its rude fantastic shape. 
Then rose his band to duty — not from sleep — 
Equipp'd for deeds alike on land or deep ; 
While lean'd their leader o'er the fretting flood, 
And calmly talk'd — and yet he talk'd of blood ! 





CANTO THE SECOND. 

"Conosceste i dubiosi desiri? "— DANTE. 

I. 

In Coron's bay floats many a galley light, 
Through Coron's lattices the lamps are bright, 
For Seyd, the Pacha, makes a feast to-night : 
A feast for promis'd triumph yet to come, 
When he shall drag the fetter'd Rovers home. 
This hath he sworn by Alia and his sword ; 
And faithful to his firman and his word, 
His summon'd prows collect along the coast, 
And great the gathering crews, and loud the boast ; 
Already shared the captives and the prize, 
Though far the distant foe they thus despise ; 
'Tis but to sail — no doubt to-morrow's sun 
Will see the Pirates bound — their haven won ! 
28 



THE CORSAIR. 29 

Meantime the watch may slumber, if they will, 
Nor only wake to war, but dreaming kill. 
Though all, who can, disperse on shore and seek 
To flesh their glowing valour on the Greek ; 
How well such deed becomes the turban' d brave, 
To bare the sabre's edge before a slave ! 
Infest his dwelling — but forbear to slay, 
Their arms are strong, yet merciful to-day, 
And do not deign to smite because they may ! 
Unless some gay caprice suggests the blow. 
To keep in practice for the coming foe. 
Revel and rout the evening hours beguile, 
And they who wish to wear a head must smile ; 
For Moslem mouths produce their choicest cheer, 
And hoard their curses, till the coast is clear. 



High in his hall reclines the turban'd Seyd ; 
Around — the bearded chiefs he came to lead. 
Removed the banquet, and the last pilaff — 
Forbidden draughts, 'tis said, he dared to quaff, 
Though to the rest the sober berry's juice,* 
The slaves bear round for rigid Moslems' use ; 
The long chibouques f dissolving cloud supply, 
While dance the Almas t to wild minstrelsy. 
The rising morn will view the chiefs embark ; 
But waves are somewhat treacherous in the dark; 

* Coffee. t Pipe. I Dancing girls. 



30 THE CORSAIR. 

And revellers may more securely sleep 

On silken couch than o'er the rugged deep ; 

Feast there who can — nor combat till they must, 

And less to conquest than to Korans trust ; 

And yet the numbers crowded in his host 

Might warrant more than even the Pacha's boast. 



With cautious reverence from the outer gate, 
Slow stalks the slave, whose office there to wait, 
Bows his bent head, his hand salutes the floor, 
Ere yet his tongue the trusted tidings bore : 
" A captive Dervise, from the Pirate's nest 
Escaped, is here— himself would tell the rest." * 

* It has been objected that Conrad's entering disguised 
as a spy is out of nature ; — perhaps so. I find something 
not unlike it in history. 

" Anxious to explore with his own eyes the state of the 
Vandals, Majorian ventured, after disguising the colour of 
his hair, to visit Carthage in the character of his own am- 
bassador ; and Genseric was afterwards mortified by the 
discovery that he had entertained and dismissed the Em- 
peror of the Romans. Such an anecdote maybe rejected 
as an improbable fiction ; but it is a fiction which would not 
have been imagined unless in the life of a hero." — GIBBON, 
Decline and Fall , voL vi., p. 180. 

That Conrad is a character not altogether out of nature, 
I shall attempt to prove by some historical coincidences 
which I have met with since writing The Corsair. 

" Eccelin prisonnier," dit Rolandini, " s'enfermoit dans 
un silence menacant, il fixoit sur la terre son visage feroce, 



THE CORSAIR. 3 1 

He took the sign from Seyd's assenting eye, 
And led the holy man in silence nigh. 
His arms were folded on his dark-green vest, 
His step was feeble, and his look depressed ; 
Yet worn he seemed of hardship more than years, 
And pale his cheek with penance, not from fears. 
Vow'd to his God — his sable locks he wore, 
And these his lofty cap rose proudly o'er ; 
Around his form his loose long robe was thrown, 
And wrapt a breast bestow'd on Heaven alone ; 
Submissive, yet with self-possession mann'd, 
He calmly met the curious eyes that scann'd ; 
And question of his coming fain would seek, 
Before the Pacha's will allow' d to speak. 

et ne donnoit point d'essor a sa profonde indignation. — De 
toutes parts cependant les soldats et les peuples accour* 
oient ; ils vouloient voir cet homme, jadis si puissant, et la 
joie universelle eclatoit de toutes parts. . . . Eccelin etoit 
d'une petite tailie ; mais tout l'aspect de sa personne, tous 
ses mouvemens, indiquoient un soldat. — Son langage dtoit 
amer, son deportement superbe — et par son seul egard, il 
faisoit trembler les plus hardis." — SlSMONDi, tome iii., 
pp., 219, 220. 

" Gizericus (Genseric, king of the Vandals, the conqueror 
of both Carthage and Rome), statura mediocris, et equi 
casu claudicans, animo profundus, sermone rarus, luxuriae 
contemptor. ira turbidus, habendi cupidus, ad solicitandas 
gentes providentissimus," &c. &c— JORNANDES, de Rebus 
Geticis, c. 33. 

I beg leave to quote these gloomy realities to keep in 
countenance my Giaour and Corsair. 



32 THE CORSAIR. 



" Whence com'st thou, Dervise ? " 

" From the outlaw's den 
A fugitive — " 

" Thy capture where and when ? " 
11 From Scalanovo's port to Scio's isle, 
The Saick was bound ; but Alia did not smile 
Upon our course — the Moslem merchant's gains 
The Rovers won : our limbs have worn their chains. 
I had no death to fear, nor wealth to boast, 
Beyond the wandering freedom which I lost ; 
At length a fisher's humble boat by night 
Afforded hope, and offer'd chance of flight : 
I seized the hour, and find my safety here ; 
With thee, most mighty Pacha ! who can fear? " 

" How speed the outlaws ? stand they well pre- 
pared 
Their plunder'd wealth, and robber's rock to guard ? 
Dream they of this our preparation, doom'd 
To view with fire their scorpion nest consumed ? " 

"Pacha! the fetter'd captive's mourning eye, 
That weeps £or flight, but ill can play the spy : 
1 only heard the reckless waters roar, 
Those waves that would not bear me from the 

shore ; 
I only mark'd the glorious sun and sky, 
Too bright — too blue — for my captivity ; 



THE CORSAIR. 33 

Ard felt — that all which Freedom's bosom cheers, 
Musi break my chain before it dried my tears. 
This may'st thou judge, at least, from my escape, 
They little deem of aught in peril's shape ; 
Else vainly had I pray'd or sought the chance 
That leads me here — if eyed with vigilance ; 
The careless guard that did not see me fly, 
May watch as idly when thy power is nigh. 
Pacha ! — my limbs are faint — and nature craves 
Food for my hunger, rest from tossing waves : 
Permit my absence — peace be with thee ! — Peace 
With all around ! — now grant repose — release." 

" Stay, Dervise ! I have more to question — stay, 
I do command thee — sit — dost hear ? — obey ! 
More I must ask, and food the slaves shall bring ; 
Thou shalt not pine where all are banqueting: 
The supper done — prepare thee to reply, 
Clearly and full — I love not mystery." 
'T were vain to guess what shook the pious man, 
Who look'd not lovingly on that Divan ; 
Nor show'd high relish for a banquet prest, 
And less respect for every fellow-guest. 
'T was but a moment's peevish hectic past 
Along his cheek, and tranquillized as fast : 
He sate him down in silence, and his look 
Resumed the calmness which before forsook : 
The feast was usher'd in ; but sumptuous fare 
He shunn'd as if some poison mingled there. 
3 



34 THE CORSAIR. 



For one so long condemn'd to toil and fast, 
Methinks he strangely spares the rich repast. 
' * What ails thee, Dervise ? eat — dost thou sup- 
pose 
This feast a Christian's ? or my friends thy foes ? 
Why dost thou shun the salt? that sacred pledge, 
Which, once partaken, blunts the sabre's edge, 
Makes even contending tribes in peace unite, 
And hated hosts seem brethren to the sight ! " 

" Salt seasons dainties — and my food is still 
The humblest root, my drink the simplest rill ; 
And my stern vow and order's* laws oppose 
To break or mingle bread with friends or foes : 
It may seem strange— if there be aught to dread, 
That peril rests upon my single head ; 
But for thy sway — nay more — thy Sultan's throne, 
I taste nor bread nor banquet — save alone ; 
Infringed our order's rule, the Prophet's rage 
To Mecca's dome might bar my pilgrimage." 

" Well — as thou wilt — ascetic as thou art — 
One question answer ; then in peace depart. 
How many? — Ha ! it cannot sure be day ? 
What star — what sun is bursting on the bay ? 
It shines a lake of fire ! — away — away ! 
Ho ! treachery ! my guards ! my scimitar ! 
The galleys feed the flames — and I afar ! 

* The dervises are in colleges and of different orders, as 
the monks. 



THE CORSAIR. 35 

Accursed Dervise ! —these thy tidings — thou 
Some villain spy — seize— cleave him — slay him 
now ! " 

Up rose the Dervise with that burst of light, 
Nor less his change of form appall'd the sight ; 
Up rose that Dervise — not in saintly garb, 
But like a warrior bounding on his barb, 
Dash'd his high cap, and tore his robe away — 
Shone his mail'd breast, and flash'd his sabre's 

ray! 
His close but glittering casque, and sable plume, 
More glittering eye, and black brow's sabler gloom 
Glared on the Moslems' eyes some Afrit sprite, 
Whose demon death-blow left no hope for fight. 
The wild confusion, and the swarthy glow 
Of flames on high, and torches from below ; 
The shriek of terror, and the mingling yell — 
For swords began to clash, and shouts to swell, 
Flung o'er that spot of earth the air of hell ! 
Distracted, to and fro, the flying slaves 
Behold but bloody shore and fiery waves ; 
Nought heeded they the Pacha's angry cry, 
They seize that Dervise ! — seize on Zatanai ! * 
He saw their terror — check' d the first despair 
That urged him but to stand and perish there, 
Since far too early and too well obey'd, 
The flame was kindled ere the signal made ; 



36 THE CORSAIR. 

He saw their terror — from his baldric drew 
His bugle — brief the blast — but shrilly blew : 
'T is answered — " Well ye speed, my gallant crew ! 
Why did I doubt their quickness of career, 
And deem design had left me single here?" 
Sweeps his long arm — that sabre's whirling sway 
Sheds fast atonement for its first delay ; 
Completes his fury what their fear begun, 
And makes the many basely quail to one. 
The cloven turbans o'er the chamber spread, 
And scarce an arm dare rise to guard its head : 
Even Seyd, convulsed, o'erwhelm'd with rage, 

surprise, 
Retreats before him, though he still defies. 
No craven he — and yet he dreads the blow, 
So much Confusion magnifies his foe ! 
His blazing galleys still distract his sight, 
He tore his beard, and foaming fled the fight; 
For now the pirates pass'd the Haram gate, 
And burst within — and it were death to wait ; 
Where wild Amazement shrieking — kneeling — 

throws 
The sword aside — in vain — the blood o'erflows ! 
The corsairs pouring, haste to where within, 
Invited Conrad's bugle, and the din 
Of groaning victims, and wild cries for life, 
Proclaim'd how well he did the work of strife. 
They shout to find him grim and lonely there, 
A glutted tiger mangling in his lair ! 



THE CORSAIR. 27 

But short their greeting, shorter his reply — 
"'Tis well — but Seyd escapes, — and he must 

die : 
Much hath been done, but more remains to do — 
Their galleys blaze — why not their city too ? " 



Quick at the word, — they seized him each a torch, 

And fire the dome from minaret to porch. 

A stern delight was fix'd in Conrad's eye, 

But sudden sunk ; for on his ear the cry 

Of women struck, and like the deadly knell 

Knock' d at that heart unmoved by battle's yell. 

" Oh ! burst the Haram — wrong not on your lives 

One female form ; remember — we have wives. 

On them such outrage Vengeance will repay ; 

Man is our foe, and such 't is ours to slay ; 

But still we spared — must spare the weaker prey 

Oh ! I forgot — but Heaven will not forgive 

If at my word the helpless cease to live : 

Follow who will — I go — we yet have time 

Our souls to lighten of at least a crime." 

He climbs the crackling stair — he bursts the door, 

Nor feels his feet grow scorching with the floor ; 

His breath choked gasping with the volumed 

smoke. 
But still from room to room his way he broke. 
They search — they find — they save : with lusty 

arms 



38 THE CORSAIR. 



Each bears a prize of unregarded charms ; 
Calm their loud fears : sustain their sinking frames 
With all the care defenceless beauty claims : 
So well could Conrad tame their fiercest mood, 
And check the very hands with gore imbued. 
But who is she whom Conrad's arms convey 
From reeking pile and combat's wreck away ? 
Who but the love of him he dooms to bleed ? 
The Haram queen — but still the slave of Seyd ! 



Brief time had Conrad now to greet Gulnare,* 

Few words to reassure the trembling fair ; 

For in that pause compassion snatch' d from war, 

The foe before retiring, fast and far, 

With wonder saw their footsteps unpursued, 

First slowlier fled — then rallied — then withstood. 

This Seyd perceives, then first perceives how few, 

Compared with his, the Corsair's roving crew, 

And blushes o'er his error, as he eyes 

The ruin wrought by panic and surprise. 

Alia il Alia ! Vengeance swells the cry — 

Shame mounts to rage that must atone or die ! 

And flame for flame and blood for blood must tell, 

The^ide of triumph ebbs that flow'd too well — 

When wrath returns to renovated strife, 

And those who fought for conquest strike for life. 

* Gulnare, a female name. It means, literally, the flower 
of the pomegranate. 



THE CORSAIR, 39 

Conrad beheld the danger — he beheld 
His followers faint by freshening foes repelFd ! 
" One effort — one — to break the circling host ! " 
They form — unite — charge — waver — all is lost ! 
Within a narrower ring compress'd, beset, 
Hopeless, not heartless, strive and struggle yet — 
Ah ! now they fight in firmest file no more, 
Hemm'd in — cut off — cleft down — and trampled 

o'er ; 
But each strikes singly, silently, and home, 
And sinks outwearied rather than o'ercome, 
His last faint quittance rendering with his breath, 
Till the blade glimmers in the grasp of death ! 



But first, ere came the rallying host to blows, 
And rank to rank, and hand to hand oppose, 
Gulnare and all her Haram handmaids freed, 
Safe in the dome of one who held their creed, 
By Conrad's mandate safely were bestow'd, 
And dried those tears for life and fame that flow'd : 
And when that dark-eyed lady, young Gulnare, 
Recall'd those thoughts late wandering in despair, 
Much did she marvel o'er the courtesy 
That smooth'd his accents ; soften' d in his eye : 
'T was strange — that robber thus with gore bedew' d 
Seem'd gentler then than Seyd in fondest mood. 
The Pacha woo'd as if he deem'd the slave 
Must seem delighted with the heart he gave ; 



40 THE CORSAIR. 

The Corsair vow'd protection, soothed affright 

As if his homage were a woman's right. 

"The wish is wrong — nay, worse for female — 

vain : 
Yet much I long to view that chief again ; 
If but to thank for, what my fear forgot, 
The life —my loving lord remember'd not ! " 



And him she saw, where thickest carnage spread, 
But gather'd breathing from the happier dead ; 
Far from his band, and battling with a host 
That deem right dearly won the field he lost, 
Fell'd — bleeding — baffled of the death he sought, 
And snatch'd to expiate all the ills he wrought ; 
Preserved to linger and to live in vain, 
While Vengeance ponder'd o'er new plans of pain, 
And stanch'd the blood she saves to shed again — 
But drop by drop, for Seyd's unglutted eye 
Would doom him ever dying — ne'er to die ! 
Can this be he ? triumphant late she saw, 
When his red hand's wild gesture waved, a law 
'T is he, indeed — disarm'd, but undeprest, 
His sole regret the life he still possest ; 
His wounds too slight, though taken with that will, 
Which would have kiss'd the hand that then could 

kill. 
Oh, were there none, of all the many given, 
To send his soul — he scarcely ask'd to heaven ! 



THE CORSAIR. 41 

Must he alone of all retain his breath, 

Who more than all had striven and struck for 

death ? 
He deeply felt — what mortal hearts must feel, 
When thus reversed on faithless Fortune's wheel, 
For crimes committed, and the victor's threat 
Of lingering tortures to repay the debt, 
He deeply, darkly felt ; but evil pride 
That led to perpetrate — now nerves to hide. 
Still in his stern and self-collected mien, 
A conqueror's more than captive's air is seen, 
Though faint with wasting toil and stiffening 

wound, 
But few that saw — so calmly gazed around : 
Though the far-shouting of the distant crowd, 
Their tremors o'er, rose insolently loud, 
The better warriors who beheld him near, 
Insulted not the foe who taught them fear ; 
And the grim guards that to his durance led, 
In silence eyed him with a secret dread. 



The Leech was sent — but not in mercy-— there, 
To note how much the life yet left could bear ; 
He found enough to load with heaviest chain, 
And promise feeling for the wrench of pain: 
To-morrow — yea — to-morrow's evening sun 
Will sinking see impalement's pangs begun, 
And rising with the wonted blush of morn 



42 THE CORSAIR. 



Behold how well or ill those pangs are borne. 
Of torments this the longest and the worst, 
Which adds all other agony to thirst, 
That day by day death still forbears to slake, 
While famish'd vultures flit around the stake. 
" Oh ! water — water ! " — smiling Hate denies 
The victim's prayer ; for if he drinks, he dies. 
This was his doom : the Leech, the guard, were 

gone, 
And left proud Conrad fetter' d and alone. 



'T were vain to paint to what his feelings grew — 
It even were doubtful if their victim knew 
There is a war, a chaos of the mind, 
When all its elements convulsed — combined — 
Lie dark and jarring with perturbed force, 
And gnashing with impenitent Remorse ; 
That juggling fiend — who never spake before — 
But cries, " I warn'd thee ! " when the deed is o'er. 
Vain voice ! the spirit burning but unbent, 
May writhe — rebel — the weak alone repent ! 
Even in that lonely hour when most it feels, 
And to itself, all — all that self reveals, 
No single passion, and no ruling thought 
That leaves the rest as once unseen, unsought ; 
Bui the wild prospect when the soul reviews, — 
All rushing through their thousand avenues, 
Ambition's dreams expiring, love's regret, 



THE CORSAIR. 43 

Endanger'd glory, life itself beset ; 

The joy untasted, the contempt or hate 

'Gainst those who fain would triumph in our fate ; 

The hopeless past, the hasting future driven 

Too quickly on to guess of hell or heaven ; 

Deeds, thoughts, and words, perhaps remember'd 

not 
So keenly till that hour, but ne'er forgot ; 
Things light or lovely in their acted time, 
But now to stern reflection each a crime ; 
The withering sense of evil unreveal'd, 
Not cankering less because the more conceal'd — 
All, in a word, from which all eyes must start, 
That open sepulchre — the naked heart, 
Bares with its buried woes, till Pride awake, 
To snatch the mirror from the soul — and break. 
Ay, Pride can veil, and Courage brave it all, 
All — all — before — beyond — the deadliest fall. 
Each hath some fear, and he who least betrays, 
The only hypocrite deserving praise : 
Not the loud recreant wretch who boasts and flies ; 
But he who looks on death — and silent dies. 
So steel' d by pondering o'er his far career, 
He half-way meets him should he menace near ! 



In the high chamber of his highest tower 
Sate Conrad, fetter'd in the Pacha's power. 
His palace perish'd in the flame — this fort 



44 THE CORSAIR. 

Contain'd at once his captive and his court. 
Not much could Conrad of his sentence blame, 
His foe, if vanquish'd, had but shared the same : — 
Alone he sate — in solitude — had scann'd 
His guilty bosom, but that breast he mann'd : 
One thought alone he could not — dared not meet — 
" Oh, how these tidings will Medora greet ? " 
Then — only then — his clanking hands he raised, 
And strain'd with rage the chain on which he 

gazed ; 
But soon he found — or feign'd — or dream'd relief, 
And smiled in self-derision of his grief. 
" And now come torture when it will — or may, 
More need of rest to nerve me for the day ! " 
This said, with languor to his mat he crept, 
And, whatso'er his visions, quickly slept. 
'T was hardly midnight when that fray begun, 
For Conrad's plans matured, at once were done : 
And Havoc loathes so much the waste of time, 
She scarce had left an uncommitted crime. 
One hour beheld him since the tide he stemm'd — 
Disguised, discover'd, — conquering, — ta'en, — 

condemn'd — 
A chief on land, an outlaw on the deep — 
Destroying, — saving, — prison'd, — and asleep ! 



He slept in calmest seeming, for his breath 
Was hush'd so deep — Ah ! happy if in death ! 



THE CORSAIR. 45 

He slept — Who o'er his placid slumber bends? 
His foes are gone, and here he hath no friends ; 
Is it some seraph sent to grant him grace ? 
No, 't is an earthly form with heavenly face ! 
Its white arm raised a lamp — yet gently hid, 
Lest the ray flash abruptly on the lid 
Of that closed eye, which opens but to pain, 
And once unclosed — but once may close again. 
That form with eye so dark, and cheek so fair, 
And auburn waves of gemm'd and braided hair ; 
With shape of fairy lightness — naked foot, 
That shines like snow, and falls on earth as mute — 
Through guards and dunnest night how came it 

there ? 
Ah ! rather ask what will not woman dare? 
Whom youth and pity lead like thee, Gulnare ! 
She could not sleep — and while the Pacha's rest 
In muttering dreams yet saw his pirate-guest, 
She left his side — his signet-ring she bore, 
Which oft in sport adorn'd her hand before — 
And with it, scarcely question'd, won her way 
Through drowsy guards that must that sign obey. 
Worn out with toil, and tired with changing blows, 
Their eyes had envied Conrad his repose ; 
And chill and nodding at the turret door, 
They stretch their listless limbs, and watch no 

more : 
Just raised their heads to hail the signet-ring, 
Nor ask or what or who the sign may bring. 



46 THE CORSAIR. 



She gazed in wonder : " Can he calmly sleep, 
While other eyes his fall or ravage weep ? 
And mine in restlessness are wandering here — 
What sudden spell hath made this man so dear ? 
True — 't is to him my life, and more, I owe, 
And me and mine he spared from worse than woe : 
'T is late to think — but soft — his slumber breaks — 
How heavily he sighs ! — he starts — awakes ! " 

He raised his head ; — and dazzled with the light, 

His eye seem'd dubious if it saw aright : 

He moved his hand — the grating of his chain 

Too harshly told him that he lived again. 

" What is that form ? if not a shape of air, 

Methinks, my jailor's face shows wondrous fair ! " 

" Pirate ! thou know'st me not ; — but I am one, 
Grateful for deeds thou hast too rarely done : 
Look on me — and remember her thy hand 
Snatch'd from the flames, and thy more fearful 

band. 
I come through darknessa and I scarce know why — 
Yet not to hurt — I would not see thee die." 
" If so, kind lady ! thine the only eye 
That would not hear in that gay hope delight : 
Theirs is the chance — and let them use their 

right 




She gazed in wonder : " Can he 

calmly sleep, 

While other eyes his fall or ravage 
weep?" . . . 



THE CORSAIR. 49 

But still I thank their courtesy or thine, 
That would confess me at so fair a shrine ! " 

Strange though it seem, — yet with extremest grief 
Is link'd a mirth — it doth not bring relief — 
That playfulness of Sorrow ne'er beguiles, 
And smiles in bitterness — but still it smiles ; 
And sometimes with the wisest and the best, 
Till even the scaffold echoes with their jest ! 
Yet not the joy to which it seems akin — 
It may deceive all hearts, save that within. 
Whate'er it was thatflash'd on Conrad, now 
A laughing wildness half unbent his brow : 
And these his accents had a sound of mirth, 
As if the last he could enjoy on earth ; 
Yet 'gainst his nature — for through that short life, 
Few thoughts had he to spare from gloom and 
strife 

XIV. 

" Corsair ! thy doom is named — but I have power 

To sooth the Pacha in his weaker hour 

Thee would I spare — nay more — would save thee 

now, 
But this — time — hope — nor even thy strength 

allow ; 
But all I can, I will : at least delay 
The sentence that remits thee scarce a day. 
More now were ruin — even thyself were loth 
The vain attempt should bring but doom to both." 
4 



50 THE CORSAIR. 



" Yes ! — loth indeed : — my soul is nerved to all, 
Or fall'n too low to fear a further fall : 
Tempt not thyself with peril ; me with hope 
Of flight from foes with whom I could not cope : 
Unfit to vanquish — shall I meanly fly, 
The one of all my band that would not die ? 
Yet there is one — to whom my memory clings, 
Till to these eyes her own wild softness springs. 
My sole resources in the path I trod 
Were these — my bark, my sword, my love, my God. 
The last I left in youth — He leaves me now — 
And Man but works His will to lay me low. 

I have no thought to mock His throne with prayer 
Wrung from the coward crouching of despair; 

It is enough — I breathe — and I can bear. 
My sword is shaken from the worthless hand 
That might have better kept so true a brand : 
My bark is sunk or captive ; but my love — 
For her in sooth my voice would mount above : 
Oh ! she is all that still to earth can bind — 
And this will break a heart so more than kind, 
And blight a form — till thine appear' d, Gulnare, 
Mine eye ne'er ask'd if others were so fair " 

II Thou lov'st another then ? — but what to me 
Is this ? — 't is nothing — nothing e'er can be : 
But yet — thou lov'st — and — oh ! I envy those 
Whose hearts on hearts as faithful can repose, 
Who never feel the void — the wandering thought 
That sighs o'er visions — such as mine hath 

wrought." 



THE CORSAIR. 51 



" Lady — methought thy love was his, for whom 
This arm redeem'd thee from a fiery tomb." 

" My love stern Seyd's ! Oh — No— No— not 

my love : 
Yet much this heart, that strives no more, once 

strove 
To meet his passion — but it would not be. 
I felt — I feel — love dwells with — with the free, 
I am a slave, a favour'd slave at best, 
To share his splendour, and seem very blest! 
Oft must my soul the question undergo, 
Of — 'Dost thou love?' and burn to answer, 

'No!' 
Oh ! hard it is that fondness to sustain, 
And struggle not to feel averse in vain ; 
But harder still the heart's recoil to bear, 
And hide from one — perhaps another there. 
He takes the hand I give not — nor withhold — 
Its pulse nor check'd, nor quicken'd — calmly cold : 
And when resign'd, it drops a lifeless weight 
From one I never loved enough to hate. 
No warmth these lips return by his imprest, 
And chill'd remembrance shudders o'er the rest. 
Yes — had I ever proved that passion's zeal, 
The change to hatred were at least to feel : 
But still he goes unmourn'd, returns unsought, 
And oft when present — absent from my thought. 
Or when reflection comes, and come it must — 
T fear that henceforth 't will but bring disgust ; 



52 THE CORSAIR. 

I am his slave — but, in despite of pride, 
'T were worse than bondage to become his bride. 
Oh ! that this dotage of his breast would cease ; 
Or seek another and give mine release — 
But yesterday — I could have said, to peace ! 
Yes — if unwonted fondness now I feign, 
Remember — captive, 'tis to break thy chain; 
Repay the life that to thy hand I owe ; 
To give thee back to all endear'd below, 
Who share such love as I can never know. 
Farewell — morn breaks — and I must now away; 
'Twill cost me dear — but dread no death to-day ! ' 



She press'd his fetter'd fingers to her heart, 

And bow'd her head, and turn'd her to depart, 

And noiseless as a lovely dream is gone. 

And was she here ? and is he now alone? 

What gem hath dropp'd and sparkles o'er his 

chain ? 
The tear more sacred, shed for others' pain, 
That starts at once — bright — pure — from Pity's 

mine, 
Already polish'd by the hand divine ! 

Oh ! too convincing — dangerously dear — 
In woman's eye the unanswerable tear ! 
That weapon of her weakness she can wield, 
To save, subdue — at once her spear and shield : 
Avoid it — Virtue ebbs and Wisdom errs, 



THE CORSAIR. 53 

Too fondly gazing on that grief of hers ! 

What lost a world, and bade a hero fly ? 

The timid tear in Cleopatra's eye. 

Yet be the soft triumvir's fault forgiven ; 

By this — how many lose not earth — but heaven ! 

Consign their souls to man's eternal foe, 

And seal their own to spare some wanton's woe ! 



'T is morn — and o'er his alter' d features play 
The beams — without the hope of yesterday. 
What shall he be ere night? perchance a thing 
O'er which the raven flaps her funeral wing: 
By his closed eye unheeded and unfelt, 
While sets that sun, and dews of evening melt, 
Chill, wet, and misty round each stiffened limb, 
Refreshing earth — reviving all but him ! 





CANTO THE THIRD. 

' Come vedi — ancor non m'abbandona." — Dante. 



Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, 
Along Morea's hills the setting sun ; 
Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, 
But one unclouded blaze of living light ! 
O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws, 
Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows. 
On old iEgina's rock, and Idra's isle, 
The god of gladness sheds his parting smile ; 
O'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine, 
Though there his altars are no more divine. 
Descending fast, the mountain shadows kiss 
Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis ! 
Their azure arches through the long expanse 
54 



THE CORSAIR. 55 



More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance, 
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, 
Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven,* 
Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, 
Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep. 

On such an eve, his palest beam he cast, 
When — Athens ! here thy Wisest look'd his last. 
How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray, 
That closed their murder'd sage's latest day ! 
Not yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill — 
The precious hour of parting lingers still ; 
But sad his light to agonizing eyes, 
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes : 
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour, 
The land where Phcebus never frown'd before ; 
But e'er he sank below Cithseron's head, 
The cup of woe was quaff'd — the spirit fled ; 
The soul of him who scorn'd to fear or fly — 
Who lived and died, as none can live or die ! 
But lo ! from high Hymettus to the plain, 
The queen of night asserts her silent reign. 
No murky vapour, herald of the storm, 
Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form ; 
With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play, 
There the white column greets her grateful ray, 
And, bright around with quivering beams beset, 
Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret 1 
The groves of olive scatter'd dark and wide 
Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide, 



56 THE CORSAIR. 



The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque, 
The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk,* 
And, dun and sombre 'mid the holy calm, 
Near Theseus' fane yon solitary palm, 
All tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye — 
And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by. 

Again the iEgean, heard no more afar, 
Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war ; 
Again his waves in milder tints unfold 
Their long array of sapphire and of gold, 
Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle, 
That frown — where gentler ocean seems to smile. 



Not now my theme — why turn my thoughts to 

thee ? 
Oh ! who can look along thy native sea, 
Nor dwell upon thy name, whate'er the tale, 
So much its magic must o'er all prevail ? 
Who that beheld that Sun upon thee set, 
Fair Athens ! could thine evening face forget ? 
Not he — whose heart nor time nor distance frees, 
Spell-bound within the clustering Cyclades ! 
Nor seems this homage foreign to his strain , 
His Corsair's isle was once thine own domain — 
Would that with freedom it were thine again ! 

* The kiosk is a Turkish summer-house. 



THE CORSAIR. 57 



The Sun hath sunk — and, darker than the night, 
Sinks with its beam upon the beacon height — 
Medora's heart — the third day's come and 

gone — 
With it he comes not — sends not — faithless one ! 
The wind was fair though light ; and storms were 

none 
Last eve Anselmo's bark return'd, and yet 
His only tidings that they had not met ! 
Though wild, as now, far different were the tale 
Had Conrad waited for that single sail. 

The night-breeze freshens — she that day had 

pass'd 
In watching all that Hope proclaim'd a mast ; 
Sadly she sate — on high — Impatience bore 
At last her footsteps to the midnight shore ; 
And there she wander'd, heedless of the spray 
That dash'd her garments oft, and warn'd away : 
She saw not, felt not this — nor dared depart, 
Nor deem'd it cold — her chill was at her heart; 
Till grew such certainty from that suspense — 
His very sight had shock'd from life or sense ! 

It came at last — a sad and shatter'd boat, 
Whose inmates first beheld whom first they sought ; 
Some bleeding — all most wretched — these the 
few — 



58 THE CORSAIR. 



Scarce knew they how escaped — this all they 

knew. 
In silence, darkling, each appear' d to wait 
His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate : 
Something they would have said; but seem'd to 

fear 
To trust their accents to Medora's ear. 
She saw at once, yet sank not — trembled not — 
Beneath that grief, that loneliness of lot, 
Within that meek fair form, were feelings high, 
That deem'd not, till they found their energy. 
While yet was Hope, they soften'd, flutter'd, 

wept — 
All lost — that softness died not — but it slept ; 
And o'er its slumber rose that Strength which said, 
"With nothing left to love, there's nought to 

dread." 
'Tis more than nature's — like the burning might 
Delirium gathers from the fever's height. 

" Silent you stand — nor would I hear you tell 
What — speak not — breathe not — for I know it 

well — 
Yet would I ask — almost my lip denies 
The — quick your answer — tell me where he lies." 

11 Lady ! we know not — scarce with life we fled ; 

But here is one denies that he is dead : 

He saw him bound ; and bleeding — but alive." 



THE CORSAIR. 59 

She heard no further — 't was in vain to strive — 
So throbb'd each vein — each thought — till then 

withstood ; 
Her own dark soul — these words at once subdued : 
She totters — falls — and senseless had the wave 
Perchance but snatch'd her from another grave : 
But that with hands though rude, yet weeping eyes, 
They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies : 
Dash o'er her death-like cheek the ocean dew, 
Raise — fan — sustain — till life returns anew ; 
Awake her handmaids, with the matrons leave 
That fainting form o'er which they gaze and grieve ; 
Then seek Anselmo's cavern, to report 
The tale too tedious — when the triumph short. 



In that wild council, words wax'd warm and 

strange, 
With thoughts of ransom, rescue, and revenge ; 
All, save repose or flight : still lingering there 
Breathed Conrad's spirit, and forbade despair ; 
Whate'er his fate — the breasts he form'd and led, 
Will save him living, or appease him dead. 
Woe to his foes ! there yet survive a few, 
Whose deeds are daring as their hearts are true. 



Within the Haram's secret chamber sate 

Stern Seyd, still pondering o'er his Captive's fate ; 



6o THE CORSAIR. 



His thoughts on love and hate alternate dwell, 
Now with Gulnare, and now in Conrad's cell ; 
Here at his feet the lovely slave reclined 
Surveys his brow — would soothe his gloom of 

mind: 
While many an anxious glance her large dark eye 
Sends in its idle search for sympathy, 
His only bends in seeming o'er his beads,* 
But inly views his victim as he bleeds. 
" Pacha! the day is thine ; and on thy crest 
Sits Triumph — Conrad taken — fall'n the rest ! 
His doom is fix'd — he dies : and well his fate 
Was earn'd — yet much too worthless for thy hate : 
Methinks, a short release, for ransom told 
With all his treasure, not unwisely sold: 
Report speaks largely of his pirate-hoard — 
Would that of this my Pacha were the lord ! 
While baffled, weaken'd by this fatal fray — 
Watch'd — follow'd — he were then an easier prey; 
But once cut off — the remnant of his band 
Embark their wealth, and seek a safer strand." 

" Gulnare ! — if for each drop of blood a gem 
Were offer'd rich as Stamboul's diadem ; 
If for each hair of his a massy mine 
Of virgin ore should supplicating shine ; 
If all our Arab tales divulge or dream 

* The Comboloio, or Mahometan rosary. 




Here at his feet the lovely slave 

reclined, 
Surveys his brow — would soothe 
his gloom of mind. . . . 



THE CORSAIR. 63 

Of wealth were here — that gold should not 

redeem ! 
It had not now redeem'd a single hour, 
But that I know him fetter' d, in my power ; 
And, thirsting for revenge, I ponder still 
On pangs that longest rack, and latest kill." 
" Nay, Seyd ! — I seek not to restrain thy rage, 
Too justly moved for mercy to assuage ; 
My thoughts were only to secure for thee 
His riches — thus released, he were not free ; 
Disabled, shorn of half his might and band, 
His capture could but wait thy first command." 

" His capture could I — and shall I then resign 
One day to him — the wretch already mine? 
Release my foe ! — at whose remonstrance ? — 

thine ! 
Fair suitor ! — to thy virtuous gratitude, 
That thus repays this Giaour's relenting mood, 
Which thee and thine alone of all could spare, 
No doubt — regardless if the prize were fair, 
My thanks and praise alike are due — now hear ! 
I have a counsel for thy gentler ear : 
I do mistrust thee, woman ! and each word 
Of thine stamps truth on all Suspicion heard. 
Borne in his arms through fire from yon Serai — 
Say, wert thou lingering there with him to fly ? 
Thou need' st not answer — thy confession speaks, 
Already reddening on thy guilty cheeks ; 



64 THE CORSAIR. 

Then, lovely dame, bethink thee, and beware ! 
'Tis not his life alone may claim such care ! 
Another word and — nay — I need no more. 
Accursed was the moment when he bore 
Thee from the flames, which better far — but 

no — 
I then had mourn'd thee with a lover's woe — 
Now, 't is thy lord that warns — deceitful thing ! 
Know' st thou that I can clip thy wanton wing ? 
In words alone I am not wont to chafe : 
Look to thyself — nor deem thy falsehood safe ! " 

He rose — and slowly, sternly thence withdrew, 
Rage in his eye and threats in his adieu : 
Ah ! little reck'd that chief of womanhood — 
Which frowns ne'er quell'd, nor menaces subdued ; 
And little deem'd he what thy heart, Gulnare, 
When soft could feel, and when incensed could 

dare. 
His doubts appear'd to wrong — nor yet she knew 
How deep the root from whence compassion 

grew — 
She was a slave — from such may captives claim 
A fellow-feeling, differing but in name ; 
Still half-unconscious — heedless of his wrath, 
Again she ventured on the dangerous path, 
Again his rage repell'd — until arose 
That strife of thought, the source of woman's 

woes ! 



THE CORSAIR. 65 



Meanwhile — long, anxious — weary, still — the 

same 
Roll'd day and night — his soul could terror 

tame — 
This fearful interval of doubt and dread, 
When every hour might doom him worse than 

dead, 
When every step that echo'd by the gate 
Might entering lead where axe and stake await ; 
When every voice that grated on his ear 
Might be the last that he could ever hear ; 
Could terror tame — that spirit stern and high 
Had proved unwilling as unfit to die ; 
'T was worn — perhaps decay'd — yet silent bore 
That conflict deadlier far than all before : 
The heat of fight, the hurry of the gale, 
Leave scarce one thought inert enough to quail ; 
But bound and fix'd in fetter' d solitude, 
To pine, the prey of every changing mood ; 
To gaze on thine own heart ; and meditate 
Irrevocable faults, and coming fate — 
Too late the last to shun — the first to mend — 
To count the hours that struggle to thine end, 
With not a friend to animate, and tell 
To other ears that death became thee well ; 
Around thee foes to forge the ready lie, 
And blot life's latest scene with calumny ; 
5 



66 THE CORSAIR. 

Before thee tortures, which the soul can dare, 
Yet doubts how well the shrinking flesh may bear ; 
But deeply feels a single cry would shame, 
To valour's praise thy last and dearest claim ; 
The life thou leav'st below, denied above 
By kind monopolists of heavenly love ; 
And more than doubtful paradise — thy heaven 
Of earthly hope — thy loved one from thee riven. 
Such were the thoughts that outlaw must sustain, 
And govern pangs surpassing mortal pain : 
And those sustain'd he — boots it well or ill ? 
Since not to sink beneath, is something still ! 



The first day pass'd — he saw not her — Gulnare — 
The second — third — and still she came not there ; 
But what her words avouch'd, her charms had 

done, 
Or else he had not seen another sun. 
The fourth day roll'd along, and with the night 
Came storm and darkness in their mingling might : 
Oh ! how he listen'd to the rushing deep, 
That ne'er till now so broke upon his sleep ; 
And his wild spirit wilder wishes sent, 
Roused by the roar of his own element ! 
Oft had he ridden on that winged wave, 
And loved its roughness for the speed it gave ; 
And now its dashing echo'd on his ear, 
A long known voice — alas, too vainly near ! 



THE CORSAIR. 6j 

Loud sung the wind above ; and, doubly loud, 
Shook o'er his turret cell the thunder-cloud ; 
And flash'd the lightning by the latticed bar, 
To him more genial than the midnight star : 
Close to the glimmering grate he dragg'd his chain, 
And hoped that peril might not prove in vain. 
He raised his iron hand to Heaven, and pray'd 
One pitying flash to mar the form it made : 
His steel and impious prayer attract alike — 
The storm roll'd onward, and disdain'd to strike ; 
Its peal wax'd fainter — ceased — he felt alone, 
As if some faithless friend had spurn'd his groan. 



The midnight pass'd, and to the massy door 

A light step came — it paused — it moved once 

more ; 
Slow turns the grating bolt and sullen key : 
'Tis as his heart foreboded — that fair she ! 
Whate'er her sins, to him a guardian saint, 
And beauteous still as hermit's hope can paint : 
Yet changed since last within that cell she came, 
More pale her cheek, more tremulous her frame : 
On him she cast her dark and hurried eye, 
Which spoke before her accents — "Thou must 

die! 
Yes, thou must die — there is but one resource, 
The last — the worst — if torture were not worse." 



68 THE CORSAIR. 



" Lady! I look to none — my lips proclaim 
What last proclaim'd they — Conrad still the same : 
Why should'st thou seek an outlaw's life to spare, 
And change the sentence I deserve to bear ? 
Well have I earn'd — nor here alone — the meed 
Of Seyd's revenge, by many a lawless deed. " 

"Why should I seek? because — oh, didst thou 

not 
Redeem my life from worse than slavery's lot? 
Why should I seek ? — hath misery made thee 

blind 
To the fond workings of a woman's mind? 
And must I say ? albeit my heart rebel 
With all that woman feels, but should not tell — 
Because — despite thy crimes — that heart is 

moved : 
It fear' d thee — thank'd thee — pitied — madden'd 

— loved. 
Reply not, tell not now thy tale again, 
Thou lov'st another — and I love in vain ; 
Though fond as mine her bosom, form more fair, 
I rush through peril which she would not dare. 
If that thy heart to hers were truly dear, 
Were I thine own — thou wert not lonely here : 
An outlaw's spouse — and leave her lord to roam ! 
What hath such gentle dame to do with home? 
But speak not now — o'er thine and o'er my head 
Hangs the keen sabre by a single thread ; 



THE CORSAIR. 69 

If thou hast courage still, and would' st be free, 
Receive this poniard — rise — and follow me ! " 

" Ay, in my chains ! my steps will gently tread, 
With these adornments, o'er each slumbering 

head ! 
Thou hast forgot — is this a garb for flight ? 
Or is that instrument more fit for fight ? " 

" Misdoubting Corsair I have gain'd the guard, 

Ripe for revolt, and greedy for reward. 

A single word of mine removes that chain : 

Without some aid how here could I remain ? 

Well, since we met, hath sped my busy time, 

If in aught evil, for thy sake the crime : 

The crime — 't is none to punish those of Seyd. 

That hated tyrant, Conrad — he must bleed ! 

I see thee shudder — but my soul is changed — 

Wrong'd — spurn'd — reviled — and it shall be 

aveng'd — 
Accused of what till now my heart disdain'd — 
Too faithful, though to bitter bondage chain'd. 
Yes, smile ! — but he had little cause to sneer, 
I was not treacherous then — nor thou too dear : 
But he has said it — and the jealous well, 
Those tyrants, teasing, tempting to rebel, 
Deserve the fate their fretting lips foretell. 
I never loved — he bought me — somewhat high — 
Since with me came a heart he could not buy. 
I was a slave unmurmuring ; he hath said, 



JO THE CORSAIR. 

But for his rescue I with thee had fled. 

'T was false thou know'st — but let such augurs rue, 

Their words are omens Insult renders true. 

Nor was thy respite granted to my prayer ; 

This fleeting grace was only to prepare 

New torments for thy life, and my despair. 

Mine too he threatens ; but his dotage still 

Would fain reserve me for his lordly will : 

When wearier of these fleeting charms and me, 

There yawns the sack — and yonder rolls the sea ! 

What, am I then a toy for dotard's play, 

To wear but till the gilding frets away ? 

I saw thee — loved thee — owe thee all — would 

save, 
If but to show how grateful is a slave. 
But had he not thus menaced fame and life 
(And well he keeps his oaths pronounced in strife), 
I still had saved thee — but the Pacha spared. 
Now I am all thine own — for all prepared : 
Thou lov'st me not — nor know'st — or but the 

worst. 
Alas ! this love — that hatred are the first — 
Oh ! couldst thou prove my truth, thou wouldst not 

start, 
Nor fear the fire that lights an Eastern heart ; 
'T is now the beacon of thy safety — now 
It points within the port a Mainote prow : 
But in one chamber, where our path must lead 
There sleeps — he must not wake — the oppressor 

Seyd ! " 



THE CORSAIR. 7 1 

u Gulnare — Gulnare — I never felt till now 

My abject fortune, wither'd fame so low ; 

Seyd is mine enemy; had swept my band 

From earth with ruthless but with open hand ; 

And therefore came I, in my bark of war, 

To smite the smiter with the scimitar ; 

Such is my weapon — not the secret knife — 

Who spares a woman's seeks not slumber's life. 

Thine saved I gladly, Lady, not for this — 

Let me not deem that mercy shown amiss. 

Now fare thee well — more peace be with thy 

breast ! 
Night wears apace — my last of earthly rest ! " 

" Rest ! rest ! by sunrise must thy sinews shake, 

And thy limbs writhe around the ready stake. 

I heard the order — saw — I will not see — 

If thou wilt perish, I will fall with thee. 

My life, my love, my hatred — all below 

Are on this cast — Corsair ! 't is but a blow! 

Without it flight were idle — how evade 

His sure pursuit ? my wrongs too unrepaid, 

My youth disgraced — the long, long wasted years, 

One blow shall cancel with our future fears ; 

But since the dagger suits thee less than brand, 

I '11 try the firmness of a female hand. 

The guards are gain'd — one moment all were 

o'er — 
Corsair ! we meet in safety or no more ; 



72 THE CORSAIR. 



If errs my feeble hand, the morning cloud 
Will hover o'er thy scaffold, and my shroud.' 



She turn'd, and vanish'd ere he could reply, 
But his glance follow'd far with eager eye ; 
And gathering, as he could, the links that bound 
His form, to curl their length, and curb their 

sound, 
Since bar and bolt no more his steps preclude, 
He, fast as fetter'd limbs allow, pursued. 
'T was dark and winding, and he knew not where 
That passage led ; nor lamp nor guard was there ; 
He sees a dusky glimmering — shall he seek 
Or shun that ray so indistinct and weak ? 
Chance guides his steps — a freshness seems to 

bear 
Full on his brow, as if from morning air ; 
He reach' d an open gallery— on his eye 
Gleam'd the last star of night, the clearing sky : 
Yet scarcely heeded these — another light 
From a lone chamber struck upon his sight. 
Towards it he moved ; a scarcely closing door 
Reveal' d the ray within, but nothing more. 
With hasty step a figure outward pass'd, 
Then paused — and turn'd — and paused — 't is She 

at last ! 
No poniard in that hand, nor sign of ill — 



THE CORSAIR. 73 

" Thanks to that softening heart, she could not 

kill ! " 
Again he look'd, the wildness of her eye 
Starts from the day abrupt and fearfully. 
She stopp'd — threw back her dark far-floating 

hair, 
That nearly veil'd her face and bosom fair ; 
As if she late had bent her leaning head 
Above some object of her doubt or dread. 
They meet — upon her brow — unknown — forgot — 
Her hurrying hand had left — 'twas but a spot — 
Its hue was all he saw, and scarce withstood — 
Oh ! slight but certain pledge of crime — 't is blood! 



He had seen battle — he had brooded lone 

O'er promised pangs to sentenced guilt foreshown ; 

He had been tempted, — chasten'd, — and the 

chain 
Yet on his arms might ever there remain ; 
But ne'er from strife, captivity, remorse — 
From all his feelings in their inmost force — 
So thrill'd, so shudder'd every creeping vein, 
As now they froze before that purple stain. 
That spot of blood, that light but guilty streak, 
Had banish'd all the beauty from her cheek ! 
Blood he had view'd — could view unmoved — but 

then 
It flow'd in combat, or was shed by men ! 



74 THE CORSAIR. 



" 'T is done — he nearly waked — but it is done. 
Corsair ! he perish'd — thou art dearly won. 
All words would now be vain — away — away ! 
Our bark is tossing — 't is already day. 
The few gain'd over, now are wholly mine, 
And these thy yet surviving band shall join ; 
Anon my voice shall vindicate my hand, 
When once our sail forsakes this hated strand." 

XII. 

She clapp'd her hands — and through the gallery 

pour, 
Equipp'd for flight, her vassals — Greek and Moor ; 
Silent but quick they stoop, his chains unbind ; 
Once more his limbs are free as mountain wind ! 
But on his heavy heart such sadness sate, 
As if they there transferr'd that iron weight. 
No words are utter'd — at her sign, a door 
Reveals the secret passage to the shore ; 
The city lies behind — they speed, they reach 
The glad waves dancing on the yellow beach ; 
And Conrad following, at her beck, obey'd, 
Nor cared he now if rescued or betray'd ; 
Resistance were as useless as if Seyd 
Yet lived to view the doom his ire decreed. 

XIII. 

Embark'd, the sail unfurl'd, the light breeze blew — 
How much had Conrad's memory to review ! 



THE CORSAIR. 75 

Sunk he in Contemplation, till the cape 
Where last he anchor'd rear'd its giant shape. 
Ah ! since that fatal night, though brief the time, 
Had swept an age of terror, grief, and crime. 
As its far shadow frown' d above the mast, 
He veil'd his face ; and sorrow'd as he pass'd ; 
He thought of all — Gonsalvo and his band, 
His fleeting triumph and his failing hand ; 
He thought on her afar, his lonely bride : 
He turn'd and saw — Gulnare, the homicide ! 



She watch'd his features till she could not bear 
Their freezing aspect and averted air, 
And that strange fierceness foreign to her eye, 
Fell quench'd in tears, too late to shed or dry. 
She knelt beside him, and his hand she press'd, 
" Thou may'st forgive though Allah's self detest ; 
But for that deed of darkness, what wert thou ? 
Reproach me — but not yet — O ! spare me now I 
I am not what I seem — this fearful night 
My brain bewildered — do not madden quite ! 
If I had never loved— though less my guilt, 
Thou hadst not lived to — hate me — if thou wilt." 

xv. 
She wrongs his thoughts, they more himself upbraid 
Than her, though undesign'd, the wretch he 
made : 



y6 THE CORSAIR. 

But speechless all, deep, dark, and unexprest, 

They bleed within that silent cell — his breast. 

Still onward, fair the breeze, nor rough the surge, 

The blue waves sport around the stern they urge ; 

Far on the horizon's verge appears a speck, 

A spot — a mast — a sail — an armed deck ! 

Their little bark her men of watch descry, 

And ampler canvas woos the wind from high ; 

She bears her down majestically near, 

Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier ; 

A flash is seen — the ball beyond their bow 

Booms harmless, hissing to the deep below. 

Up rose keen Conrad from his silent trance, 

A long, long absent gladness in his glance : — 

" 'T is mine — my blood-red flag! again — again — 

I am not all deserted on the main ! " 

They own the signal, answer to the hail, 

Hoist out the boat at once, and slacken sail. 

" 'T is Conrad ! Conrad ! " shouting from the 

deck, 
Command nor duty could their transport check ! 
With light alacrity and gaze of pride, 
They view him mount once more his vessel's side ; 
A smile relaxing in each rugged face, 
Their arms can scarce forbear a rough embrace. 
He, half forgetting danger and defeat, 
Returns their greeting as a chief may greet, 
Wrings with a cordial grasp Anselmo's hand, 
And feels he yet can conquer and command ! 



THE CORSAIR. 77 



These greetings o'er, the feelings that o'erflow, 

Yet grieve to win him back without a blow ; 

They sail'd prepared for vengeance — had they 

known 
A woman's hand secured that deed her own, 
She were their queen — less scrupulous are they 
Than haughty Conrad how they win their way. 
With many an asking smile, and wondering stare, 
They whisper round, and gaze upon Gulnare ; 
And her, at once above — beneath her sex, 
Whom blood appall'd not, their regards perplex. 
To Conrad turns her faint imploring eye, 
She drops her veil, and stands in silence by ; 
Her arms are meekly folded on that breast, 
Which — Conrad safe — to fate resign'd the rest. 
Though worse than frenzy could that bosom fill, 
Extreme in love or hate, in good or ill, 
The worst of crimes had left her woman still. 

XVIL 

This Conrad mark'd, and felt — ah ! could he less? 
Hate of that deed — but grief for her distress ; 
What she has done no tears can wash away, 
And Heaven must punish on its angry day : 
But — it was done : he knew, whate'er her guilt, 
For him that poniard smote, that blood was spilt ; 
And he was free ! — and she for him had given 



78 THE CORSAIR. 

Her all on earth, and more than all in heaven ! 
And now he turn'd him to that dark-eyed slave, 
Whose brow was bow'd beneath the glance he 

gave, 
Who now seem'd changed and humbled, faint and 

meek, 
But varying oft the colour of her cheek 
To deeper shades of paleness — all its red 
That fearful spot which stain'd it from the dead ! 
He took that hand — it trembled — now too late — 
So soft in love, so wildly nerved in hate ; 
He clasp'd that hand — it trembled — and his own 
Had lost its firmness, and his voice its tone. 
" Gulnare ! " — but she replied not — " dear Gul- 

nare ! " 
She raised her eye — her only answer there — 
At once she sought and sunk in his embrace : 
If he had driven her from that resting-place, 
His had been more or less than mortal heart, 
But — good or ill — it bade her not depart. 
Perchance, but for the bodings of his breast, 
His latest virtue then had join'd the rest. 
Yet even Medora might forgive the kiss 
That ask'd from form so fair no more than this. 
The first, the last that Frailty stole from Faith — 
To lips where Love had lavish'd all his breath, 
To lips — whose broken sighs such fragrance 

fling, 
As he had fann'd them freshly with his wing ! 



THE CORSAIR. 79 



They gain by twilight's hour their lonely isle. 

To them the very rocks appear to smile ; 

The haven hums with many a cheering sound, 

The beacons blaze their wonted stations round, 

The boats are darting o'er the curly bay, 

And sportive dolphins bend them through the 

spray ; 
Even the hoarse sea-bird's shrill, discordant shriek, 
Greets like the welcome of his tuneless beak ! 
Beneath each lamp that through its lattice gleams, 
Their fancy paints the friends that trim the beams. 
Oh ! what can sanctify the joys of home, 
Like Hope's gay glance from Ocean's troubled 

foam! 

XIX. 

The lights are high on beacon and from bower, 
And 'midst them Conrad seeks Medora's tower : 
He looks in vain — 't is strange — and all remark, 
Amid so many, hers alone is dark. 
'T is strange — of yore its welcome never fail'd, 
Nor now perchance extinguish'd, only veil'd. 
With the first boat descends he for the shore, 
And looks impatient on the lingering oar. 
Oh ! for a wing beyond the falcon's flight, 
To bear him like an arrow to that height ? 
With the first pause the resting rowers gave, 
He waits not, looks not — leaps into the wave, 



8o THE CORSAIR. 



Strives through the surge, bestrides the beach, and 

high 
Ascends the path familiar to his eye. 
He reach'd his turret door — he paused — no 

sound 
Broke from within ; and all was night around. 
He knock'd, and loudly — footstep nor reply 
Announced that any heard or deem'd him nigh ; 
He knock'd, but faintly — for his trembling hand 
Refused to aid his heavy heart's demand. 
The portal opens — 'tis a well-known face — 
But not the form he panted to embrace. 
Its lips are silent — twice his own essay'd, 
And fail'd to frame the question they delayed ; 
He snatch'd the lamp — its light will answer all — 
It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall. 
He would not wait for that reviving ray — 
As soon could he have linger'd there for day ; 
But, glimmering through the dusky corridore, 
Another chequers o'er the shadow'd floor ; 
His steps the chamber gain — his eyes behold 
All that his heart believed not — yet foretold ! 



He turn'd not — spoke not — sunk not — fix'd his 

look, 
And set the anxious frame that lately shook : 
He gazed — how long we gaze despite of pain, 
And know, but dare not own, we gaze in vain ! 



THE CORSAIR. 



In life itself she was so still and fair, 

That death with gentler aspect wither'd there : 

And the cold flowers her colder hand contain'd, 

In that last grasp as tenderly were strain'd 

As if she scarcely felt, but feign' d a sleep, 

And made it almost mockery yet to weep . 

The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow, 

And veil'd — thought shrinks from all that lurk'd 

below — 
Oh ! o'er the eye death most exerts his might, 
And hurls the spirit from her throne of light ! 
Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse, 
But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips — 
Yet, yet they seem as they forbore to smile, 
And wislvd repose — but only for a while ; 
But the white shroud, and each extended tress, 
Long — fair — but spread in utter lifelessness, 
Which, late the sport of every summer wind, 
Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind ; 
These — and the pale pure cheek, became the bier — 
But she is nothing — wherefore is he here ? 



He ask'd no question — all were answer'd now 
By the first glance on that still, marble brow. 
It was enough — she died — what reck'd it how ? 
The love of youth, the hope of better years, 
The source of softest wishes, tenderest fears, 
The only living thing he could not hate, 
6 



82 THE CORSAIR. 



Was reft at once — and he deserved his fate, 

But did not feel it less : — the good explore, 

For peace, those realms where guilt can never soar; 

The proud, the wayward, who have fix'd below 

Their joy, and find this earth enough for woe, 

Lose in that one their all — perchance a mite — 

But who in patience parts with all delight? 

Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern 

Mask hearts where grief hath little left to learn : 

And many a withering thought lies hid, not lost, 

In smiles that least befit who wear them most. 



By those, that deepest feel, is ill exprest 
The indistinctness of the suffering breast ; 
Where thousand thoughts begin to end in one, 
Which seeks from all the refuge found in none ; 
No words suffice the secret soul to show, 
And Truth denies all eloquence to Woe. 
On Conrad's stricken soul exhaustion prest, 
And stupor almost lull'd it into rest ; 
So feeble now — his mother's softness crept 
To those wild eyes, which like an infant's wept : 
It was the very weakness of his brain, 
Which thus confess' d without relieving pain. 
None saw his trickling tears — perchance, if seen, 
That useless flood of grief had never been : 
Nor long they flow'd — he dried them to depart, 
In helpless — hopeless — brokenness of heart : 



THE CORSAIR. 83 

The sun goes forth — but Conrad's day is dim ; 
And the night cometh — ne'er to pass from him. 
There is no darkness like the cloud of mind, 
On Grief's vain eye — the blindest of the blind ! 
Which may not — dare not see — but turns aside 
To blackest shade — nor will endure a guide ! 

XXIII. 

His heart was form'd for softness — warp'd to 

wrong ; 
Betray'd too early, and beguiled too long; 
Each feeling pure — as falls the dropping dew 
Within the grot ; like that had harden' d too ; 
Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials pass'd, 
But sunk, and chill'd, and petrified at last. 
Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the rock ; 
If such his heart, so shatter'd it the shock. 
There grew one flower beneath its rugged brow, 
Though dark the shade — it shelter'd — saved till 

now. 
The thunder came — that bolt hath blasted both, 
The Granite's firmness and the Lily's growth : 
The gentle plant hath left no leaf to tell 
Its tale, but shrunk and wither'd where it fell ; 
And of its cold protector, blacken round 
But shiver'd fragments on the barren ground ! 

XXIV. 

'T is morn — to venture on his lonely hour 

Few dare ; though now Anselmo sought his tower. 



84 THE CORSAIR. 



He was not there — nor seen along the shore ; 
Ere night, alarm'd, their isle is traversed o'er: 
Another morn — another bids them seek, 
And shout his name till echo waxeth weak : 
Mount, grotto, cavern, valley search'd in vain, 
They find on shore a sea-boat's broken chain ; 
Their hope revives — they follow o'er the main. 
; Tis idle all — moons roll on moons away, 
And Conrad comes not — came not since that day : 
Nor trace, nor tidings of his doom declare 
Where lives his grief, or perish'd his despair ! 
Long mourn'd his band whom none could mourn 

beside ; 
And fair the monument they gave his bride : 
For him they raise not the recording stone — 
His death yet dubious, deeds too widely known ; 
He left, a Corsair's name to other times, 
Link'd with one virtue, and a thousand crimes. 




LARA. 




LARA. 

CANTO THE FIRST. 
I. 

The Serfs are glad through Lara's wide domain,* 
And slavery half forgets her feudal chain ; 
He, their unhoped, but unforgotten lord, 
The long self-exiled chieftain, is restored : 
There be bright faces in the busy hall, 
Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall ; 

* The reader is apprised that the name of Lara being 
Spanish, and no circumstance of local or national descrip- 
tion fixing the scene or hero of the poem to any country or 
age, the word "Serf" which could not be correctly applied 
to the lower classes in Spain, who were never vassals of the 
soil, has nevertheless been employed to designate the fol- 
lowers of our fictitious chieftain. He is meant for noble of 
the Morea. 
87 



Far chequering o'er the pictured window, plays 
The unwonted fagots' hospitable blaze ; 
And gay retainers gather round the hearth, 
With tongues all loudness, and with eyes all mirth. 



The chief of Lara is return'd again : 
And why had Lara cross'd the bounding main ? 
Left by his sire, too young such loss to know, 
Lord of himself; — that heritage of woe, 
That fearful empire which the human breast 
But holds to rob the heart within of rest ! — 
With none to check, and few to point in time 
The thousand paths that slope the way to crime ; 
Then, when he most required commandment, then 
Had Lara's daring boyhood govern'd men. 
It skills not, boots not, step by step to trace 
His youth through all the mazes of its race ; 
Short was the course his restlessness had run, 
But long enough to leave him half undone. 



And Lara left in youth his fatherland ; 
But from the hour he waved his parting hand 
Each trace wax'd fainter of his course, till all 
Had- nearly ceased his memory to recall. 
His sire was dust, his vassals could declare, 
'T was all they knew, that Lara was not there ; 
Nor sent, nor came he, till conjecture grew 



LARA. 6< 

Cold in the many, anxious in the few. 
His hall scarce echoes with his wonted name, 
His portrait darkens in its fading frame. 
Another chief consoled his destined bride, 
The young forgot him, and the old had died ; 
" Yet doth he live! " exclaims the impatient heir, 
And sighs for sables which he must not wear. 
A hundred scutcheons deck with gloomy grace 
The Lara's last and longest dwelling-place ; 
Hut one is absent from the mouldering file, 
That now were welcome in that Gothic pile. 



He comes at last in sudden loneliness, 

And whence they know not, why they need not 

guess ; 
They more might marvel, when the greeting 's o'er, 
Not that he came, but came not long before : 
No train is his beyond a single page, 
Of foreign aspect, and of tender age. 
Years had roll'd on, and fast they speed away 
To those that wander as to those that stay ; 
But lack of tidings from another clime 
Had lent a flagging wing to weary Time. 
They see, they recognize, yet almost deem 
The present dubious, or the past a dream. 

He lives, nor yet is past his manhood's prime, 
Though sear'd by toil, and something touch'd by 
time ; 



90 LARA. 

His faults, whate'er they were, if scarce forgot, 
Might be untaught him by his varied lot ; 
Nor good nor ill of late were known, his name 
Might yet uphold his patrimonial fame. 
His soul in youth was haughty, but his sins 
No more than pleasure from the stripling wins ; 
And such, if not yet harden'd in their course, 
Might be redeem'd, nor ask a long remorse. 



And they indeed were changed — 'tis quickly seen, 

Whate'er he be, 't was not what he had been : 

That brow in furrow'd lines had fix'd at last, 

And spake of passions, but of passion past ; 

The pride, but not the fire, of early days, 

Coldness of mien, and carelessness of praise; 

A high demeanour, and a glance that took 

Their thoughts from others by a single look ; 

And that sarcastic levity of tongue, 

The stinging of a heart the world hath stung, 

That darts in seeming playfulness around, 

And makes those feel that will not own the wound : 

All these seem'd his, and something more beneath 

Than glance could well reveal, or accent breathe. 

Ambition, glory, love, the common aim, 

That some can conquer, and that all would claim, 

Within his breast appear'd no more to strive, 

Yet seem'd as lately they had been alive ; 

And some deep feeling it were vain to trace 

At moments lighten'd o'er his livid face. 






9i 



Not much he loved long question of the past, 
Nor told of wondrous wilds, and deserts vast, 
In those far lands where he had wander'd lone, 
And — as himself would have it seem — unknown : 
Yet these in vain his eye could scarcely scan, 
Nor glean experience from his fellow-man ; 
But what he had beheld he shunn'd to show, 
As hardly worth a stranger's care to know ; 
If still more prying such inquiry grew, 
His brow fell darker, and his words more few. 



Not unrejoiced to see him once again, 
Warm was his welcome to the haunts of men ; 
Born of high lineage, link'd in high command, 
He mingled with the Magnates of his land ; 
Join'd the carousals of the great and gay, 
And saw them smile or sigh their hours away ; 
But still he only saw, and did not share 
The common pleasure or the general care : 
He did not follow what they all pursued, 
With hope still baffled, still to be renew'd ; 
Nor shadowy honour, nor substantial gain, 
Nor beauty's preference, and the rival's pain : 
Around him some mysterious circle thrown 
Repell'd approach, and show'd him still alone ; 
Upon his eye sate something of reproof, 



92 LARA. 

That kept at least frivolity aloof ; 
And things more timid that beheld him near, 
In silence gazed, or whisper' d mutual fear ; 
And they the w'iser, friendlier few confess'd 
They deem'd him better than his air express'd. 



'T was strange — in youth all action and all life, 

Burning for pleasure, not averse from strife ; 

Woman — the field — the ocean — all that gave 

Promise of gladness, peril of a grave, 

In turn he tried — he ransack'd all below, 

And found his recompense in joy or woe, 

No tame, trite medium ; for his feelings sought 

In that intenseness an escape from thought : 

The tempest of his heart in scorn had gazed 

On that the feebler elements had raised : 

The rapture of his heart had look'd on high, 

And ask'd if greater dwelt beyond the sky : 

Chain'd to excess, the slave of each extreme, 

How woke he from the wildness of that dream ? 

Alas ! he told not ; — but he did awake 

To curse the wither' d heart that would not break. 



Books, for his volume heretofore was Man, 
With eye more curious he appear'd to scan ; 
And oft, in sudden mood, for many a day 
From all communion he would start away : 






LARA. 93 

And then, his rarely call'd attendants said, . 
Through night's long hours would sound his hurried 

tread 
O'er the dark gallery, where his fathers frown'd 
In rude but antique portraiture around. 
They heard, but whisper'd — " that must not be 

known — 
The sound of words less earthly than his own. 
Yes, they who chose might smile, but some had seen 
They scarce knew what, but more than should have 

been. 
Why gazed he so upon the ghastly head 
Which hands profane had gather'd from the dead, 
That still beside his open'd volume lay, 
As if to startle all save him away ? 
Why slept he not when others were at rest ? 
Why heard no music, and received no guest ? 
All was not well, they deem'd; but where the 

wrong ? 
Some knew perchance — but 't were a tale too long ; 
And such besides were too discreetly wise, 
To more than hint their knowledge in surmise; 
But if they would — they could" — around the 

board, 
Thus Lara's vassals prattled of their lord. 

x. 

It was the night — and Lara's glassy stream 
The stars are studding, each with imaged beam ; 



94 LARA. 

So calm, the waters scarcely seem to stray, 

And yet they v glide like happiness away ; 

Reflecting far and fairy-like from high 

The immortal lights that live along the sky : 

Its banks are fringed with many a goodly tree, 

And flowers the fairest that may feast the bee : 

Such in her chaplet infant Dian wove, 

And Innocence would offer to her love. 

These deck the shore ; the waves their channel make 

In windings bright and mazy like the snake. 

All was so still, so soft in earth and air, 

You scarce would start to meet a spirit there ; 

Secure that nought of evil could delight 

To walk in such a scene, on such a night ! 

It was a moment only for the good : 

So Lara deem'd, nor longer there he stood, 

But turtvd in silence to his castle-gate ; 

Such scene his soul no more could contemplate : 

Such scene reminded him of other days, 

Of skies more cloudless, moons of purer blaze, 

Of nights more soft and frequent, hearts that now — 

No — no — the storm may beat upon his brow, 

Unfelt — unsparing ; but a night like this, 

A night of beauty, mock'd such breast as his. 



He turn'd within his solitary hall, 

And his high shadow shot along the wall : 

There were the painted forms of other times, 



_ 



LARA. 95 

'T was all they left of virtues or of crimes, 

Save vague traditions ; and the gloomy vaults 

That hid their dust, their foibles, and their faults ; 

And half a column of the pompous page, 

That speeds the specious tale from age to age, 

Where history's pen its praise or blame supplies, 

And lies like truth, and still most truly lies. 

He wandering mused, and as the moonbeam shone 

Through the dim lattice o'er the floor of stone, 

And the high fretted roof, and saiuts, that there 

O'er Gothic windows knelt in picture prayer, 

Reflected in fantastic figures grew, 

Like life, but not like mortal life, to view ; 

His bristling locks of sable, brow of gloom, 

And the wide waving of his shaken plume, 

Glanced like a spectre's attributes, and gave 

His aspect all that terror gives the grave. 



'T was midnight — all was slumber ; the lone light 
Dimm'd in the lamp, as loth to break the night. 
Hark ! there be murmurs heard in Lara's hall — 
A sound — a voice — a shriek — a fearful call ! 
A long, loud shriek —and silence — did they hear 
That frantic echo burst the sleeping ear ? 
They heard and rose, and tremulously brave 
Rush where the sound invoked their aid to save : 
They come with half-lit tapers in their hands, 
And snatch'd in startled haste unbelted brands. 



9 6 



XIII. 



Cold as the marble where his length was laid, 
Pale as the beam that o'er his features play'd, 
Was Lara stretch' d ; his half-drawn sabre near, 
Dropp'd it should seem in more than nature's 

fear ; 
Yet he was firm, or had been firm till now, 
And still defiance knit his gather'd brow ; 
Though mix'd with terror, senseless as he lay, 
There lived upon his lip the wish to slay ; 
Some half-form'd threat in utterance there had 

died, 
Some imprecation of despairing pride : 
His eye was almost seal'd, but not forsook 
Even in its trance the gladiator's look, 
That oft awake his aspect could disclose., 
And now was fix'd in horrible repose. 
They raise him — bear him : hush ! he breathes, he 

speaks, 
The swarthy blush recolours in his cheeks, 
His lip resumes its red ; his eye, though dim, 
Rolls wide and wild, each slowly quivering limb 
Recalls its function, but his words are strung 
In terms that seem not of his native tongue ; 
Distinct but strange, enough they understand 
To deem them accents of another land : 
And such they were, and meant to meet an ear 
That hears him not — alas, that cannot hear ! 




Glanced like a spectre's attributes, 

and gave 
His aspect all that terror gives the 

grave. . . . 



LARA. 99 



His page approach'd, and he alone appear' d 
To know the import of the words they heard ; 
And by the changes of his cheek and brow, 
They were not such as Lara should avow, 
Nor he interpret, yet with less surprise 
Than those around their chieftain's state he eyes, 
But Lara's prostrate form he bent beside, 
And in that tongue which seem'd his own replied, 
And Lara heeds those tones that gently seem 
To soothe away the horrors of his dream ; 
If dream it were, that thus could overthrow 
A breast that needed not ideal woe. 



Whate'er his frenzy dream'd or eye beheld, 

If yet remember'd ne'er to be reveal'd, 

Rests at his heart : the custom'd morning came, 

And breathed new vigour in his shaken frame ; 

And solace sought he none from priest nor leech, 

And soon the same in movement and in speech 

As heretofore he fill'd the passing hours, 

Nor less he smiles, nor more his forehead lowers 

Than these were wont ; and if the coming night 

Appear'd less welcome now to Lara's sight, 

He to his marvelling vassals show'd it not, 

Whose shuddering proved their fear was less forgot. 

In trembling pairs (alone they dared not) crawl 

The astonish'd slaves, and shun the fated hall', 



IOO LARA. 

The waving banner, and the clapping door ; 
The rustling tapestry, and the echoing floor , 
The long dim shadows of surrounding trees, 
The flapping bat, the night-song of the breeze ; 
Aught they behold or hear their thought appals, 
As evening saddens o'er the dark grey walls. 



Vain thought ! that hour of ne'er unravell'd gloom 
Came not again, or Lara could assume 
A seeming of forgetf ulness, that made 
His vassals more amazed, nor less afraid. 
Had memory vanish'd then with sense restored ? 
Since word, nor look, nor gesture of their lord 
Betray'd a feeling that recall'd to these 
That fever'd moment of his mind's disease. 
Was it a dream ? was his the voice that spoke 
Those strange wild accents ? his the cry that broke 
Their slumber ? his the oppress'd o'er-labour'd heart 
That ceased to beat, the look that made them 

start ? 
Could he who thus had suffer'd, so forget, 
When such as saw that suffering shudder yet ? 
Or did that silence prove his memory fiVd 
Too deep for words, indelible, unmix'd 
In that corroding secrecy which gnaws 
The heart to show the effect, but not the cause ? 
Not so in him ; his breast had buried both, 
Nor common gazers could discern the growth 



LARA. IOJ 

Of thoughts that mortal lips must leave half told ; 
They choke the feeble words that would unfold. 



In him inexplicably mix'd appear'd 

Much to be loved and hated, sought and fear'd ; 

Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot, 

In praise or railing ne'er his name forgot : 

His silence form'd a theme for others' prate — 

They guess' d — they gazed — they fain would know 

his fate. 
What had he been ? what was he, thus unknown, 
Who walk'd their world, his lineage only known ? 
A hater of his kind? yet some would say, 
With them he could seem gay amidst the gay ; 
But own'd that smile, if oft observed and near, 
Waned in its mirth, and wither'd to a sneer ; 
That smile might reach his lip, but pass'd not by, 
None e'er could trace its laughter to his eye : 
Yet there was softness too in his regard, 
At times, a heart as not by nature hard, 
But once perceived, his spirit seem'd to chide 
Such weakness, as unworthy of its pride, 
And steel'd itself, as scorning to redeem 
One doubt from others' half withheld esteem ; 
In self-inflicted penance of a breast 
Which tenderness might once have wrung from rest , 
In vigilance of grief, that would compel 
The soul to hate for having loved too well. 



102 LARA. 

XVIII. 

There was in him a vital scorn of all ; 
As if the worst had fall'n which could befall, 
He stood a stranger in this breathing world, 
An erring spirit from another hurled ; 
A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped 
By choice the perils he by chance escaped ; 
But 'scaped in vain, for in their memory yet 
His mind would half exult and half regret : 
With more capacity for love than earth 
Bestows on most of mortal mould and birth, 
His early dreams of good outstripp'd the truth, 
And troubled manhood follow'd baffled youth ; 
With thought of years in phantom chase misspent, 
And wasted powers for better purpose lent: 
And fiery passions that had pour'd their wrath 
In hurried desolation o'er his path, 
And left the better feelings all at strife 
In wild reflection o'er his stormy life ; 
But haughty still, and loth himself to blame, 
He call'd on Nature's self to share the shame, 
And charged all faults upon the fleshly form 
She gave to clog the soul, and feast the worm ; 
Till he at last confounded good and ill, 
And half mistook for fate the acts of will : 
Too high for common selfishness, he could 
At times resign his own for others' good, 
But not in pity, not because he ought, 
But in some strange perversity of thought, 






LARA. IO3 

That sway'd him onward with a secret pride 

To do what few or none would do beside ; 

And this same impulse would, in tempting time, 

Mislead his spirit equally to crime ; 

So much he soar'd beyond, or sunk beneath 

The men with whom he felt condemn'd to breathe, 

And longed by good or ill to separate 

Himself from all who shared his mortal state ; 

His mind abhorring, this had fix'd her throne 

Far from the world, in regions of her own ; 

Thus coldly passing all that pass'd below, 

His blood in temperate seeming now would flow • 

Ah ! happier if it ne'er with guilt had glow'd, 

But ever in that icy smoothness flow'd. 

'Tis true, with other men their path he walk'd, 

And like the rest in seeming did and talk'd; 

Nor outraged Reason's rules by flaw nor start, 

His madness was not of the head, but heart; 

And rarely wandered in his speech, or drew 

His thoughts so forth as to offend the view. 



With all that chilling mystery of mien, 

And seeming gladness to remain unseen ; 

He had (if 'twere not nature's boon) an art 

Of fixing memory on another's heart : 

It was not perchance love, — nor hate — nor aught 

That words can image to express the thought ; 

But they who saw him did not see in vain, 



104 LARA. 

And once beheld, would ask of him again : 
And those to whom he spake remember'd well, 
And on the words, however light, would dwell : 
None knew nor how, nor why, but he entwined 
Himself perforce around the hearer's mind : 
There he was stamp'd, in liking, or in hate, 
If greeted once ; however brief the date 
That friendship, pity, or aversion knew, 
Still there within the inmost thought he grew. 
You could not penetrate his soul, but found, 
Despite your wonder, to your own he wound : 
His presence haunted still ; and from the breast 
He forced an all-unwilling interest. 
Vain was the struggle in that mental net, 
His spirit seem'd to dare you to forget ! 



There is a festival, where knights and dames, 
And aught that wealth or lofty lineage claims, 
Appear —-a high-born and a welcomed guest 
To Otho's hall came Lara with the rest. 
The long carousal shakes the illumined hall, 
Well speeds alike the banquet and the ball *, 
And the gay dance of bounding Beauty's train 
Links grace and harmony in happiest chain ; 
Blest are the early hearts and gentle hands 
That mingle there in well-according bands. 
It is a sight the careful brow might smooth, 
And make age smile, and dream itself to youth, 



LARA. 105 

And Youth forget such hour was pass'd on earth, 
So springs the exulting bosom to that mirth ! 

XXI. 

And Lara gazed on these, sedately glad ; 
His brow belied him if his soul was sad ; 
And his glance follow'd fast each fluttering fair, 
Whose steps of lightness woke no echo there. 
He lean'd against the lofty pillar nigh, 
With folded arms and long attentive eye, 
Nor mark d a glance so sternly fix'd on his : 
111 brook'd high Lara scrutiny like this. 
At length he caught it, 't is a face unknown, 
But seems as searching his, and his alone ; 
Prying and dark, a stranger's by his mien, 
Who still till now had gazed on him unseen ; 
At length encountering meets the mutual gaze 
Of keen inquiry, and of mute amaze : 
On Lara's giance emotion gathering grew, 
As if distrusting that the stranger threw ; 
Along the stranger's aspect fix'd and stern 
Flash' d more than thence the vulgar eye could 
learn. 

XXII. 

"'Tis he!" the stranger cried, and those tfiat 

heard, 
Re-echo'd fast and far the whisper'd word. 
" 'T is he ! " — " 'T is who ? " they question far and 

near, 



106 LARA. 

Till louder accents rung on Lara's ear ; 

So widely spread, few bosoms well could brook 

The general marvel, or that single look. 

But Lara stirr'd not, changed not : the surprise 

That sprung at first to his arrested eyes 

Seem'd now subsided ; neither sunk nor raised 

Glanced his eye round, though still the stranger 

gazed ; 
And drawing nigh, exclaim'd, with haughty sneer, 
" *T is he ! — how came he thence ? — what doth he 

here ? " 



It were too much for Lara to pass by 

Such questions, so repeated fierce and high : 

With look collected, but with accent cold, 

More mildly firm than petulantly bold, 

He turn'd, and met the inquisitorial tone — 

" My name is Lara ! — when thine own is known, 

Doubt not my fitting answer to requite 

The unlook'd-for courtesy of such a knight. 

'T is Lara ! - further wouldst thou mark or ask ? 

I shun no question, and I wear no mask." 

"Thou shunn'st no question? Ponder — is there 

none 
Thy heart must answer, though thine ear would 

shun? 
And deem'st thou me unknown too? Gaze again I 
At least thy memory was not given in vain. 



LARA. IO7 

Oh ! never canst thou cancel half her debt, 
Eternity forbids thee to forget." 
With slow and searching glance upon his face 
Grew Lara's eyes, but nothing there could trace. 
They knew, or chose to know : with dubious look 
He deign'd no answer, but his head he shook, 
And half contemptuous turn'd to pass away ; 
But the stern stranger motion'd him to stay. 
" A word ! — I charge thee stay, and answer here 
To one who, wert thou noble, were thy peer ; 
But as thou wast and art — nay, frown not, lord, 
If false, 'tis easy to disprove the word — 
But as thou wast and art, on thee looks down, 
Distrusts thy smiles, but shakes not at thy frown. 
Art thou not he, whose deeds — " 

" Whate'er I be, 
Words wild as these, accusers like to thee, 
I list no further ; those with whom they weigh 
May hear the rest, nor venture to gainsay 
The wondrous tale no doubt thy tongue can tell, 
Which thus begins so courteously and well. 
Let Otho cherish here his polish'd guest, 
To him my thanks and thoughts shall be ex- 

press'd." 
And here their wondering host hath interposed -. 
" Whate'er there be between you undisclosed, 
This is no time nor fitting place to mar 
The mirthful meeting with a wordy war. 
If thou, Sir Ezzelin, hast aught to show 



108 LARA. 

Which it befits Count Lara's ear to know, 
To-morrow, here, or elsewhere as may best 
Beseem your mutual judgment, speak the rest ; 
I pledge myself for thee, as not unknown, 
Though like Count Lara now return'd alone 
From other lands, almost a stranger grown ; 
And if from Lara's blood and gentle birth 
I augur right of courage and of worth, 
He will not that untainted line belie, 
Nor aught that knighthood may accord, deny." 

"To-morrow be it," Ezzelin replied, 

" And here our several worth and truth be tried ; 

I gage my life, my falchion, to attest 

My words ; so may I mingle with the blest ! " 

What answers Lara ? to its centre shrunk 

His soul, in deep abstraction sudden sunk. 

The words of many, and the eyes of all 

That there were gather'd, seem'd on him to fall ; 

But his were silent, his appear'd to stray 

In far forgetfulness away — away — 

Alas ! that heedlessness of all around 

Bespoke remembrance only too profound. 



" To-morrow ! — ay, to-morrow! " Further word 
Than those repeated none from Lara heard. 
Upon his brow no outward passion spoke, 
From his large eye no flashing anger broke; 



LARA. 109 

Yet there was something fix'd in that low tone 
Which show'd resolve, determined, though un- 
known. 
He seized his cloak — his head he slightly bow'd, 
And passing Ezzelin he left the crowd ; 
And, as he pass'd him, smiling met the frown 
With which that chieftain's brow would bear him 

down. 
It was nor smile of mirth, nor struggling pride 
That curbs to scorn the wrath it cannot hide ; 
But that of one in his own heart secure 
Of all that he would do, or could endure. 
Could this mean peace? the calmness of the good? 
Or guilt grown old in desperate hardihood? 
Alas ! too like in confidence are each 
For man to trust to mortal look or speech ; 
From deeds, and deeds alone, may he discern 
Truths which it wrings the unpractised heart to 
learn. 



And Lara called his page, and went his way — 
Well could that stripling word or sign obey: 
His only follower from those climes afar 
Where the soul glows beneath a brighter star ; 
For Lara left the shore from whence he sprung, 
In duty patient, and sedate though young ; 
Silent as him he served, his fate appears 
Above his station, and beyond his years. 



110 LARA. 

Though not unknown the tongue of Lara's land, 
In such from him he rarely heard command ; 
But fleet his step, and clear his tones would come, 
When Lara's lip breathed forth the words of 

home. 
Those accents, as his native mountains dear, 
Awake their absent echoes in his ear ; 
Friends', kindreds', parents', wonted voice recall, 
Now lost, abjured, for one — his friend, his all : 
For him earth now disclosed no other guide ; 
What marvel, then, he rarely left his side ? 



Light was his form, and darkly delicate 
That brow whereon his native sun had sate, 
But had not marr'd, though in his beams he grew, 
The cheek where oft the unbidden blush shone 

through ; 
Yet not such blush as mounts when health would 

show 
All the heart's hue in that delighted glow ; 
But 't was a hectic tint of secret care 
That for a burning moment fever'd there. 
And the wild sparkle of his eye seem'd caught 
From high, and lighten'd with electric thought, 
Though its black orb those long low lashes' fringe 
Had temper'd with a melancholy tinge ; 
Yet less of sorrow than of pride was there, ' 
Or, if 't were grief, a grief that none should share : 



LARA. Ill 

And pleased not him the sports that please his age, 
The tricks of youth, the frolics of the page. 
For hours on Lara he would fix his glance, 
As all- forgotten in that watchful trance ; 
And from his chief withdrawn, he wander'd lone, 
Brief were his answers, and his questions none : 
His walk the wood, his sport some foreign book : 
His resting-place the bank that curbs the brook : 
He seem'd like him he served, to live apart 
From all that lures the eye, and fills the heart ; 
To know no brotherhood, and take from earth 
No gift beyond that bitter boon — our birth. 



If aught he loved, 't was Lara : but was shown 

His faith in reverence and in deeds alone ; 

In mute attention ; and his care, which guess'd 

Each wish, fulfill'd it ere the tongue express'd. 

Still there was haughtiness in all he did, 

A spirit deep that brook'd not to be chid : 

His zeal, though more than that of servile hands, 

In act alone obeys, his air commands; 

As if 't was Lara's less than his desire 

That thus he served, but surely not for hire. 

Slight were the tasks enjoin'd him by his lord, 

To hold the stirrup, or to bear the sword ; 

To tune his lute, or, if he will'd it more, 

On tomes of other times and tongues to pore ; 

But ne'er to mingle with the menial train, 



112 LARA. 

To whom he show'd nor deference nor disdain, 

But that well-worn reserve which proved he knew 

No sympathy with that familiar crew ; 

His soul, whate'er his station or his stem, 

Could bow to Lara, not descend to them. 

Of higher birth he seem'd, and better days ; 

Nor mark of vulgar toil that hand betrays, 

So femininely white, it might bespeak 

Another sex, when matched with that smooth 

cheek, 
But for his garb, and something in his gaze, 
More wild and high than woman's eye betrays ; 
A latent fierceness that far more became 
His fiery climate than his tender frame : 
True, in his words it broke not from his breast, 
But from his aspect might be more than guess'd. 
Kaled his name, though rumour said he bore 
Another ere he left his mountain shore; 
For sometimes he would hear, however nigh, 
That name repeated loud without reply, 
As unfamiliar ; or, if roused again, 
Start to the sound, as but remember'd then ; 
Unless 't was Lara's wonted voice that spake, 
For then, ear, eyes, and heart would all awake. 

xxvm. 
He had look'd down upon the festive hall, 
And mark'd that sudden strife so mark'd of all ; 
And when the crowd around and near him told 



LARA. 113 

Their wonder at the calmness of the bold, 

Their marvel how the high-born Lara bore 

Such insult from a stranger, doubly sore, 

The colour of young Kaled went and came, 

The lip of ashes, and the cheek of flame ; 

And o'er his brow the dampening heart-drops 

threw 
The sickening iciness of that cold dew, 
That rises as the busy bosom sinks 
With heavy thoughts from which reflection shrinks. 
Yes, there be things which we must dream and 

dare, 
And execute before thought be half aware ; 
Whate'er might Kaled's be, it was enow 
To seal his lip, but agonize his brow. 
He gazed on Ezzelin till Lara cast 
That sidelong smile upon the knight he pass'd ; 
When Kaled saw that smile his visage fell, 
As if on something recognized right well : 
His memory read in such a meaning more 
Than Lara's aspect unto others wore, 
Forward he sprung — a moment, both were gone, 
And all within that hall seem'd left alone ; 
Each had so fix'd his eye on Lara's mien, 
All had so mix'd their feelings with that scene, 
That when his long dark shadow through the 

porch 
No more relieves the glare of yon high torch, 
Each pulse beats quicker, and all bosoms seem 



114 LARA. 

To bound as doubting from too black a dream, 
Such as we know is false, yet dread in sooth, 
Because the worst is ever nearest truth. 
And they are gone — but Ezzelin is there, 
With thoughtful visage and imperious air ; 
But long remain'd not: ere an hour expired 
He waved his hand to Otho, and retired 



The crowd are gone, the revellers at rest : 
The courteous host, and all-approving guest, 
Again to that accustom'd couch must creep 
Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep, 
And man, o'erlabour'd with his being's strife, 
Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life : 
There lie love's feverish hope, and cunning's 

guile, 
Hate's working brain, and lull'd ambition's wile : 
O'er each vain eye oblivion's pinions wave, 
And quenched existence crouches in a grave. 
What better name may slumber's bed become? 
Night's sepulchre, the universal home, 
Where weakness, strength, vice, virtue, sunk 

supine 
Alike in naked helplessness recline ; 
Glad for a while to heave unconscious breath, 
Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death, 
And shun, though day but dawn on ills increased, 
That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the least 




CANTO THE SECOND. 



Night wanes — the vapours round the mountains 

curl' d 
Melt into morn, and Light awakes the world 
Man has another day to swell the past, 
And lead him near to little, but his last ; 
But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth, 
The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth ; 
Flowers in the valley, splendour in the beam, 
Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream. 
Immortal man ! behold her glories shine, 
And cry exulting inly, " They are thine ! " 
Gaze on, while yet thy gladden'd eye may see, 
A morrow comes when they are not for thee; 
And grieve what may above thy senseless bier, 
Nor earth nor sky will yield a single tear; 
1 16 



"7 



Nor cloud shall gather more, nor leaf shall fall, 
Nor gale breathe forth one sigh for thee, for all ; 
But creeping things shall revel in their spoil, 
And fit thy clay to fertilize the soil. 



'T is morn — 't is noon — assembled in the hall, 
The gather'd chieftains come to Otho's call : 
'T is now the promised hour, that must proclaim 
The life or death of Lara's future fame : 
When Ezzelin his charge may here unfold, 
And whatsoe'er the tale, it must be told. 
His faith was pledged, and Lara's promise given, 
To meet 't in the eye of man and Heaven. 
Why comes he not? Such truths to be divulged, 
Methinksthe accuser's rest is long indulged. 



The hour is past, and Lara too is there, 
With self-confiding, coldly patient air; 
Why comes not Ezzelin ? The hour is past, 
And murmurs rise, and Otho's brows o'ercast. 
" I know my friend ! his faith I cannot fear, 
If yet he be on earth, expect him here ,* 
The roof that held him in the valley stands 
Between my own and noble Lara's lands ; 
My halls from such a guest had honour gain'd, 
Nor had Sir Ezzelin his host disdain'd, 
But that some previous proof forbade his stay, 



Il8 LARA. 

And urged him to prepare against to-day. 
The word I pledged for his I pledge again, 
Or will myself redeem his knighthood's stain." 

He ceased ; and Lara answer'd, " I am here 

To lend at thy demand a listening ear, 

To tales of evil from a stranger's tongue, 

Whose words already might my heart have wrung, 

But that I deem'd him scarcely less than mad, 

Or, at the worst, a foe ignobly bad. 

I know him not : but me it seems he knew 

In lands where — but I must not trifle too: 

Produce this babbler — or redeem the pledge ; 

Here in thy hold, and with thy falchion's edge." 

Proud Otho on the instant, reddening, threw 
His glove on earth, and forth his sabre flew. 
" The last alternative befits me best, 
And thus I answer for mine absent guest." 

With cheek unchanging from its sallow gloom, 

However near his own or other's tomb ; 

With hand, whose almost careless coolness spoke 

Its grasp well used to deal the sabre-stroke; 

With eye, though calm, determined not to spare, 

Did Lara too his willing weapon bear. 

In vain the circling chieftains round them closed, 

For Otho's frenzy would not be opposed ; 

And from his lip those words of insult fell — 

His sword is good who can maintain them well. 



LARA. 119 



Short was the conflict ; furious, blindly rash, 

Vain Otho gave his bosom to the gash ; 

He bled, and fell ; but not with deadly wound, 

Stretch' d by a dexterous sleight along the ground. 

" Demand thy life ! " He answer'd not : and then 

From that red floor he ne'er had risen again, 

For Lara's brow upon the moment grew 

Almost to blackness in its demon hue ; 

And fiercer shook his angry falchion now 

Than when his foe's was levell'd at his brow. 

Then all was stern collectedness and art, 

Now rose the unleaven'd hatred of his heart ; 

So little sparing to the foe he fell'd, 

That when the approaching crowd his arm withheld, 

He almost turn'd the thirsty point on those 

Who thus for mercy dared to interpose ; 

But to a moment's thought that purpose bent ; 

Yet look'd he on him still with eye intent, 

As if he loathed the ineffectual strife 

That left a foe, howe'er o'erthrown, with life ; 

As if to search how far the wound he gave 

Had sent its victim onward to his grave. 



They raised the bleeding Otho, and the Leech 
Forbade all present question, sign, and speech ; 
The others met within a neighbouring hall, 
And he, incensed and heedless of them all, 



120 LARA. 

The cause and conqueror in this sudden fray, 
In haughty silence slowly strode away : 
He back'd his steed, his homeward path he took, 
Nor cast on Otho's towers a single look. 



But where was he — that meteor of a night, 
Who menaced but to disappear with light ? 
Where was this Ezzelin ? who came and went 
To leave no other trace of his intent. 
He left the dome of Otho long ere morn, 
In darkness ; yet so well the path was worn, 
He could not miss it : near his dwelling lay ; 
But there he was not, and with coming day 
Came fast inquiry, which unfolded nought 
Except the absence of the chief it sought. 
A chamber tenantless, a steed at rest, 
His host alarm'd, his murmuring squires distress'd. 
Their search extends along, around the path, 
In dread to meet the marks of prowler's wrath : 
But none are there, and not a brake hath borne 
Nor gout of blood, nor shred of mantle torn : 
Nor fall nor struggle hath defaced the grass, 
Which still retains a mark where murder was ; 
Nor dabbling fingers left to tell the tale, 
The bitter print of each convulsive nail, 
When agonized hands that ceased to guard, 
Wound in that pang the smoothness of the sward 
Some such had been, if here a life was reft, 



LARA. I J 

But these were not ; and doubting hope is left ; 
And strange suspicion, whispering Lara's name, 
Now daily mutters o'er his blacken'd fame : 
Then sudden silent when his form appear' d, 
Awaits the absence of the thing it fear'd ; 
Again its wonted wondering to renew, 
And dye conjecture with a darker hue. 



Days roll along, and Otho's wounds are heal'd, 

But not his pride ; and hate no more conceal'd : 

He was a man of power, and Lara's foe, 

The friend of all who sought to work him woe : 

And from his country's justice now demands 

Account of Ezzelin at Lara's hands. 

Who else than Lara could have cause to fear 

His presence ? who had made him disappear, 

If not the man on whom his menaced charge 

Had sate too deeply were he left at large ? 

The general rumour ignorantly loud, 

The mystery dearest to the curious crowd ; 

The seeming friendlessness of him who strove 

To win no confidence, and wake no love ; 

The sweeping fierceness which his soul betray'd, 

The skill with which he wielded his keen blade ; 

Where had his arm unwarlike caught that art ? 

Where had that fierceness grown upon his heart ? 

For it was not the blind capricious rage 

A word can kindle and a word assuage : 



122 LARA. 

But the deep working of a soul unmix'd 
With aught of pity where its wrath had fix'd : 
Such as long power and overgorged success 
Concentrates into all that 's merciless : 
These, link'd with that desire which ever sways 
Mankind, the rather to condemn than praise, 
'Gainst Lara gathering raised at length a storm, 
Such as himself might fear, and foes would form, 
And he must answer for the absent head 
Of one that haunts him still, alive or dead. 



Within that land was many a malcontent, 

Who cursed the tyranny to which he bent ; 

That soil full many a wringing despot saw, 

Who work'd his wantonness in form of law. 

Long war without and frequent broil within 

Had made a path for blood and giant sin, 

That waited but a signal to begin 

New havoc, such as civil discord blends, 

Which knows no neuter, owns but foes or friends : 

Fix'd in his feudal fortress, each was lord, 

In word and deed obey'd, in soul abhorr'd. 

Thus Lara had inherited his lands, 

And with them pining hearts and sluggish hands ; 

But that long absence from his native clime 

Had left him stainless of oppression's crime, 

And now diverted by his milder sway, 

All dread by slow degrees had worn away 



LARA. 123 

The menials felt their usual awe alone, 

But more for him than them that fear was grown. 

They deem'd him now unhappy, though at first 

Their evil judgment augur'd of the worst ; 

And each long restless night, and silent mood, 

Was traced to sickness, fed by solitude : 

And though his lonely habits threw of late 

Gloom o'er his chamber, cheerful was his gate ; 

For thence the wretched ne'er unsoothed withdrew ; 

For them, at least, his soul compassion knew. 

Cold to the great, contemptuous to the high, 

The humble pass'd not his unheeding eye ; 

Much he would speak not, but beneath his root 

They found asylum oft, and ne'er reproof. 

And they who watch'd might mark that, day by 

day, 
Some new retainers gather'd to his sway ; 
But most of late, since Ezzelin was lost, 
He play'd the courteous lord and bounteous host : 
Perchance his strife with Otho made him dread 
Some snare prepared for his obnoxious head ; 
Whate'er his view, his favour more obtains 
With these, the people, than his fellow-thanes. 
If this were policy, so far 't was sound, 
The million judged but of him as they found ; 
From him by sterner chiefs to exile driven, 
They but required a shelter, and 't was given. 
By him no peasant mourn'd his rifled cot, 
And scarce the serf could murmur o'er his lot ; 



1 24 LARA. 

With him old avarice found its hoard secure, 
With him contempt forbore to mock the poor ; 
Youth present cheer and promised recompense 
Detain'd, till all too late to part from thence : 
To hate he offer' d, with the coming change, 
The deep reversion of delay'd revenge : 
To love, long baffled by the unequal match, 
The well-won charms success was sure to snatch. 
All now was rife, he waits but to proclaim 
That slavery nothing which was still a name. 
The moment came, the hour when Otho thought 
Secure at last the vengeance which he sought ; 
His summons found the destined criminal 
Begirt by thousands in his swarming hall, 
Fresh from their feudal fetters newly riven, 
Defying earth, and confident of heaven. 
That morning he had freed the soil-bound slaves 
Who dig no land for tyrants but their graves ! 
Such is their cry — some watchword for the fight 
Must vindicate the wrong, and warp the right : 
Religion — freedom — vengeance — what you will, 
A word 's enough to raise mankind to kill ; 
Some factious phrase by cunning caught and spread 
That guilt may reign, and wolves and worms be 
fed. 



Throughout that clime the feudal chiefs had gain'd 
Such sway, their infant monarch hardly reign'd : 



LARA. 125 

Now was the hour for faction's rebel growth, 
The serfs contemn'd the one, and hated both : 
They waited but a leader, and they found 
One to their cause inseparably bound ; 
By circumstance compell'd to plunge again, 
In self-defence, amidst the strife of men. 
Cut off by some mysterious fate from those 
Whom birth and nature meant not for his foes, 
Had Lara from that night, to him accurst, 
Prepared to meet, but not alone, the worst : 
Some reason urged, whate'er it was, to shun 
Inquiry into deeds at distance done ; 
By mingling with his own the cause of all, 
E'en if he faiPd, he still delay'd his fall. 
The sullen calm that long his bosom kept, 
The storm that once had spent itself and slept, 
Roused by events that seem'd foredoom'd to urge 
His gloomy fortunes to their utmost verge, 
Burst forth, and made him all he once had been, 
And is again : he only changed the scene. 
Light care had he for life, and less for fame, 
But not less fitted for the desperate game : 
He deem'd himself mark'd out for others' hate, 
And mock'd at ruin, so they shared his fate. 
What cared he for the freedom of the crowd ? 
He raised the humble but to bend the proud. 
He had hoped quiet in his sullen lair, 
But man and destiny beset him there : 
Inured to hunters, he was found at bay, 



126 LARA. 

And they must kill, they cannot snare the prey. 

Stern, unambitious, silent, he had been 

Henceforth a calm spectator of life's scene ; 

But dragg'd again upon the arena, stood 

A leader not unequal to the feud ; 

In voice, mien, gesture, savage nature spoke, 

And from his eye the gladiator broke. 



What boots the oft-repeated tale of strife, 
The feast of vultures, and the waste of life ? 
The varying fortune of each separate field, 
The fierce that vanquish, and the faint thatiyield? 
The smoking ruin, and the crumbled wall ? 
In this the struggle was the same with all ; 
Save that distemper'd passions lent their force 
In bitterness that banished all remorse. 
None sued, for mercy knew her cry was vain, 
The captive died upon the battle-plain ; 
In either cause, one rage alone possess'd 
The empire of the alternate victor's breast ; 
And they that smote for freedom or for sway, 
Deem'd few were slain while more remain to 

slay. 
It was too late to check the wasting brand, 
And Desolation reap'd the famish'd land ; 
The torch was lighted, and the flame was spread, 
And Carnage smiled upon her daily dead. 



127 



Fresh with the nerve the new-born impulse strung, 

The first success to Lara's numbers clung : 

But that vain victory hath ruin'd all ; 

They form no longer to their leader's call : 

In blind confusion on the foe they press, 

And think to snatch is to secure success. 

The lust of beauty, and the thirst of hate, 

Lure on the broken brigands to their fate : 

In vain he doth whate'er a chief may do, 

To check the headlong fury of that crew ; 

In vain their stubborn ardour he would tame, 

The hand that kindles cannot quench the flame : 

The wary foe alone hath turned their mood, 

And shown their rashness to that erring brood : 

The feign' d retreat, the nightly ambuscade, 

The daily harass, and the fight delay'd, 

The long privation of the hoped supply, 

The tentless rest beneath the humid sky, 

The stubborn wall that mocks the leaguer's art, 

And palls the patience of his baffled heart, 

Of these they had not deem'd : the battle-day 

They could encounter as a veteran may ; 

But more preferr'd the fury of the strife, 

And present death to hourly suffering life : 

And famine wrings, and fever sweeps away 

His numbers melting fast from their array ; 

Intemperate triumph fades to discontent, 



128 LARA. 

And Lara's soul alone seems still unbent: 
But few remain to aid his voice and hand, 
And thousands dwindled to a scanty band : 
Desperate, though few, the last and best remain'd 
To mourn the discipline they late disdain'd. 
One hope survives, the frontier is not far, 
And thence they may escape from native war, 
And bear within them to the neighbouring state 
An exile's sorrows, or an outlaw's hate : 
Hard is the task their fatherland to quit, 
But harder still to perish or submit. 



It is resolved — they march — consenting Night 
Guides with her star their dim and torchless flight : 
Already they perceive its tranquil beam 
Sleep on the surface of the barrier stream ; 
Already they descry — is yon the bank ? 
Away ! 't is lined with many a hostile rank. 
Return or fly ! — What glitters in the rear ? 
'T is Otho's banner — the pursuer's spear ! 
Are those the shepherds' fires upon the height ? 
Alas ! they blaze too widely for the flight : 
Cut off from hope, and compass'din the toil, 
- Less blood, perchance, hath bought a richer spoil ! 



A moment's pause, 't <s but to breathe their band, 
Or shall they onward press, or here withstand ? 



LARA. 129 

It matters little : — if they charge the foes 
Who by the border-stream their march oppose, 
Some few perchance may break and pass the line, 
However link'd to baffle such design. 
" The charge be ours ! to wait for their assault 
Were fate well worthy of a coward's halt." 
Forth flies each sabre, rein'd is every steed, 
And the next word shall scarce outstrip the deed : 
In the next tone of Lara's gathering breath, 
How many shall but hear the voice of death ! 



His blade is bared, in him there is an air 

As deep, but far too tranquil for despair ; 

A something of indifference more than then 

Becomes the bravest, if they feel for men. 

He turn'd his eye on Kaled, ever near, 

And still too faithful to betray one fear ; 

Perchance 't was but the moon's dim twilight 

threw 
Along his aspect an unwonted hue 
Of mournful paleness, whose deep tint express'd 
The truth, and not the terror of his breast. 
This Lara mark'd, and laid his hand on his ; 
It trembled not in such an hour as this. 
His lip was silent, scarcely beat his heart ; 
His eye alone proclaim'd, " We will not part ! 
Thy band may perish, or thy friends may flee ; 
Farewell to life, but not adieu to thee! " 



I30 LARA. 

The word hath pass'd his lips, and onward driven, 
Pours the link'd band through ranks asunder riven 
Well has each steed obey'd the arm'd heel, 
And flash the scimitars, and rings the steel. 
Outnumber'd, not outbraved, they still oppose 
Despair to daring, and a front to foes ; 
And blood is mingled with the dashing stream, 
Which runs all redly till the morning beam. 



Commanding, aiding, animating all, 

Where foe appear' d to press, or friend to fall, 

Cheers Lara's voice, and waves or strikes his steel, 

Inspiring hope himself had ceased to feel. 

None fled, for well they knew that flight were vain ; 

But those that waver turn to smite again, 

While yet they find the firmest of the foe 

Recoil before their leader's look and blow. 

Now girt with numbers, now almost alone, 

He foils their ranks, or reunites his own ; 

Himself he spared not — once they seem'd to fly — 

Now was the time, he waved his hand on high, 

And shook — Why sudden droops that plumed 

crest ? 
The shaft is sped — the arrow 's in his breast ! 
That fatal gesture left the unguarded side, 
And Death had stricken down yon arm of pride. 
The word of triumph fainted from his tongue ; 
That hand, so raised, how droopingly it hung ! 




Why sudden droops that plumed crest i 
The shaft is sped — the arrow 's 

in his breast. . . . 



LARA. 133 

But yet the sword instinctively retains, 
Though from its fellow shrink the falling reins. 
These Kalad snatches ; dizzy with the blow, 
And senseless bending o'er his saddle-bow, 
Perceives not Lara that his anxious page 
Beguiles his charger from the combat's rage : 
Meantime his followers charge, and charge again ; 
Too mix'd the slayers now to heed the slain ! 



Day glimmers on the dying and the dead, 
The cloven cuirass, and the helmless- head ; 
The war-horse masterless is on the earth, 
And that last gasp hath burst his bloody girth ; 
And near, yet quivering with what life remain'd, 
The heel that urged him, and the hand that rein'd. 
And some too near that rolling torrent lie, 
Whose waters mock the lip of those that die : 
That panting thirst which scorches in the breath 
Of those that die the soldier's fiery death, 
In vain impels the burning mouth to crave 
One drop — the last — to cool it for the grave ; 
With feeble and convulsive effort swept 
Their limbs along the crimson'd turf have crept ; 
The faint remains of life such struggles waste, 
But yet they reach the stream, and bend to taste : 
They feel its freshness, and almost partake — 
Why pause ? — No further thirst have they to slake : 
It is unquench'd, and yet they feel it not ; 
It was an agony, — but now forgot ! 



J34 



Beneath a lime, remoter from the scene, 

Where but for him that strife had never been, 

A breathing but devoted warrior lay : 

'T was Lara bleeding fast from life away. 

His follower once, and now his only guide, 

Kneels Kaled watchful o'er his welling side, 

And with his scarf would stanch the tides that rush 

With each convulsion in a blacker gush ; 

And then, as his faint breathing waxes low, 

In feebler, not less fatal tricklings flow ; 

He scarce can speak, but motions him 't is vain, 

And merely adds another throb to pain. 

He clasps the hand that pang which would assuage, 

And sadly smiles his thanks to that dark page, 

Who nothing fears, nor feels, nor heeds, nor sees, 

Save that damp brow which rests upon his knees ; 

Save that pale aspect, where the eye, though dim, 

Held all the light that shone on earth for him. 

XVIII. 

The foe arrives, who long had search 'd the field, 
Their triumph nought till Lara too should yield ; 
They would remove him, but they see 't were vain, 
And he regards them with a calm disdain, 
That rose to reconcile him with his fate, 
And that escape to death from living hate : 
And Otho comes, and leaping from his steed, 



LARA. 135 

Looks on the bleeding foe that made him bleed, 
And questions of his state ; he answers not, 
Scarce glances on him as on one forgot. 
And turns to Kaled : each remaining word 
They understood not, if distinctly heard ; 
His dying tones are in that other tongue, 
To which some strange remembrance wildly clung. 
They spake of other scenes, but what — is known 
To Kaled, whom their meaning reach'd alone ; 
And he replied, though faintly, to their sound, 
While gazed the rest in dumb amazement round ; 
They seem'd even then — that twain — unto the 

last 
To half forget the present in the past ; 
To share between themselves some separate fate, 
Whose darkness none beside should penetrate. 



Their words, though faint, were many — from the 

tone 
Their import those who heard could judge alone ; 
From this, you might have deem'd young Kaled's 

death 
More near than Lara's by his voice and breath, 
So sad, so deep, and hesitating broke 
The accents his scarce-moving pale lips spoke; 
But Lara's voice, though low, at first was clear 
And calm, till murmuring death gasp'd hoarsely 



136 LARA. 

But from his visage little could we guess, 

So unrepentant, dark, and passionless. 

Save that when struggling nearer to his last, 

Upon that page his eye was kindly cast ; 

And once, as Kaled's answering accents ceased, 

Rose Lara's hand, and pointed to the East : 

Whether (as then the breaking sun from high 

Roll'd back the clouds) the morrow caught his eye, 

Or that 't was chance, or some remember' d scene 

That raised his arm to point where such had been, 

Scarce Kaled seem'd to know, but turn'd away, 

As if his heart abhorr'd that coming day, 

And shrunk his glance before that morning light 

To look on Lara's brow — where all grew night. 

Yet sense seem'd left, though better were its loss ; 

For when one near display'd the absolving cross, 

And proffer'd to his touch the holy bead, 

Of which his parting soul might own the need, 

He look'd upon it with an eye profane, 

And smiled — Heaven pardon ! if 't were with 

disdain : 
And Kaled, though he spoke not, nor withdrew 
From Lara's face his fix'd despairing view, 
With brow repulsive, and with gesture swift, 
Flung back the hand which held the sacred gift, 
As if such but disturb' d the expiring man, 
Nor seem'd to know his life but then began, 
That life of Immortality, secure, 
To none, save them whose faith in Christ is sure. 



LARA. 137 



But gasping heaved the breath that Lara drew, 

And dull the film along his dim eye grew : 

His limbs stretch'd fluttering, and his head droop'd 

o'er 
The weak yet still untiring knee that bore ; 
He press' d the hand he held upon his heart — 
It beats no more, but Kaled will not part 
With the cold grasp, but feels, and feels in vain, 
For that faint throb which answers not again. 
" It beats ! " — Away, thou dreamer ! he is gone — 
It once was Lara which thou look'st upon. 



He gazed, as if not yet had pass'd away 

The haughty spirit of that humble clay ; 

And those around have roused him from his trance, 

But cannot tear from thence his fixed glance ; 

And when, in raising him from where he bore 

Within his arms the form that felt no more, 

He saw the head his breast would still sustain 

Roll down like earth to earth upon the plain, 

He did not dash himself thereby, nor tear 

The glossy tendrils of his raven hair, 

But strove to stand and gaze, butreel'd and fell, 

Scarce breathing more than that he loved so well. 

Than that he loved ! Oh ! never yet beneath 

The breast of man such trusty love may breathe ! 



I38 LARA. 

That trying moment hath at once reveal'd 
The secret long and yet but half conceal'd : 
In baring to revive that lifeless breast, 
Its grief seem'd ended, but the sex confess'd : 
And life return'd, and Kaled felt no shame — 
What now to her was Womanhood or Fame ? 



And Lara sleeps not where his fathers sleep, 
But where he died his grave was dug as deep ; 
Nor is his mortal slumber less profound, 
Though priest nor bless' d, nor marble deck'd the 

mound ; 
And he was mourn'd by one whose quiet grief, 
Less loud, outlasts a people's for their chief. 
Vain was all question ask'd her of the past, 
And vain e'en menace — silent to the last ; 
She told nor whence nor why she left behind 
Her all for one who seem'd but little kind. 
Why did she love him ? Curious fool ! — be still — 
Is human love the growth of human will ? 
To her he might be gentleness : the stern 
Have deeper thoughts than your dull eyes discern ; 
And when they love, your smilers guess not how 
Beats the strong heart though less the lips avow. 
They were not common links that form'd the chain 
That bound to Lara Kaled's heart and brain ; 
But that wild tale she brook'd not to unfold, 
And seal'd is now each lip that could have told. 



LARA. 139 



They laid him in the earth, and on his breast, 
Besides the wound that sent his soul to rest, 
They found the scatter'd dints of many a scar, 
Which were not planted there in recent war ; 
Where'er had pass'd his summer years of life, 
It seems they vanish'd in a land of strife ; 
But all unknown his glory or his guilt, 
These only told that somewhere blood was spilt ; 
And Ezzelin, who might have spoken the past, 
Return'd no more — that night appear'd his last. 



Upon that night (a peasant's is the tale) 

A Serf that cross'd the intervening vale, 

When Cynthia's light almost gave way to morn, 

And nearly veil'd in mist her waning horn ; 

A Serf, that rose betimes to thread the wood, 

And hew the bough that bought his children's 

food, 
Pass'd by the river that divides the plain 
Of Otho's lands and Lara's broad domain : 
He heard a tramp — a horse and horseman broke 
From out the wood — before him was a cloak 
Wrapped round some burthen at his saddle-bow, 
Bent was his head, and hidden was his brow. 
Roused by the sudden sight at such a time, 
And some foreboding that it might be crime, 



140 LARA. 

Himself unheeded watch'd the stranger's course, 
Who reach' d the river, bounded from his horse, 
And lifting thence the burthen which he bore. 
Heaved up the bank and dash'd it from the shore, 
Then paused, and look'd, and turn'd and seem'd to 

watch, 
And still another hurried glance would snatch, 
And follow with his step the stream that flow > d, 
As if even yet too much its surface show'd. 
At once he started, stoop'd, around him strown 
The winter floods had scatter'd heaps of stone ; 
Of these the heaviest thence he gather'd there. 
And slung them with a more than common care. 
Meantime the Serf had crept to where, unseen, 
Himself might safely mark what this might mean : 
He caught a glimpse, as of a floating breast, 
And something glitter'd starlike on the vest ; 
But ere he well could mark the buoyant trunk, 
A massy fragment smote it, and it sunk : 
It rose again, but indistinct to view, 
And left the waters of a purple hue, 
Then deeply disappear'd : the horseman gazed 
Till ebb'd the latest eddy it had raised ; 
Then, turning, vaulted on his pawing steed, 
And instant spurr'd him into panting speed. 
His face was mask'd — the features of the dead, 
If dead it were, escaped the observer's dread ; 
But if, in sooth, a star its bosom bore, 
Such is the badge that knighthood ever were, 



LARA. 141 

And such 'tis known Sir Ezzelin had worn 
Upon the night that led to such a morn. 
If thus he perish'd, Heaven receive his soul ! 
His undiscover'd limbs to ocean roll ; 
And charity upon the hope would dwell, 
It was not Lara's hand by which he fell. 



And Kaled — Lara — Ezzelin, are gone, 

Alike without their monumental stone ! 

The first, all efforts vainly strove to wean 

From lingering where her chieftain's blood had 

been : 
Grief had so tamed a spirit once too proud, 
Her tears were few, her wailing never loud. 
But furious would you tear her from the spot 
Where yet she scarce believed that he was not, 
Her eye shot forth with all the living fire 
That haunts the tigress in her whelpless ire ; 
But left to waste her weary moments there, 
She talked all idly unto shapes of air, 
Such as the busy brain of Sorrow paints, 
And woos to listen to her fond complaints ; 
And she would sit beneath the very tree, 
Where lay his drooping head upon her knee; 
And in that posture where she saw him fall, 
His words, his looks, his dying grasp recall ; 
And she had shorn, but saved her raven hair, 
And oft would snatch it from her bosom there, 



142 LARA. 

And fold and press it gently to the ground, 
As if she stanch'd anew some phantom's wound. 
Herself would question, and for him reply ; 
Then rising, start, and beckon him to fly 
From some imagined spectre in pursuit ; 
Then seat her down upon some linden's root, 
And hide her visage with her meagre hand, 
Or trace strange characters along the sand. 
This could not last — she lies by him she loved; 
Her tale untold — her truth too dearly proved. 







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